


when the hand you wanna hold is a weapon

by JoyHale



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: & season 3, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murphy Makes Friends, Murphy is TRYING okay, Murphy is a Little Shit, Scars, The 100 (TV) Season 2, but like ppl are mean to him too so, deliquents againts the adults, i guess, it's not like he is not trying, just mentions of it, not graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyHale/pseuds/JoyHale
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Murphy wasn't born an asshole. Just the world had been an asshole to him first.An AU where Murphy doesn't leave with Jaha and instead gets captured by the Mountain Men, which results in a lot of different things. Like Bellamy suddenly caring for him; what's up with that anyway?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Harper McIntyre/Zoe Monroe, Monty Green/Nathan Miller
Comments: 34
Kudos: 97





	1. i keep running when both my feet hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people! I have started watching the 100 last week and I'm already on season 3, soo... Hope this fandom isn't dead yet! I love Bellamy and Murphy and wanted to write their story myself. It's canon divergence but uses events from canon. 
> 
> title from graveyard by Halsey

Murphy knows he isn’t a good person. He doesn’t try to pretend otherwise or act as if the horrible things he has done were only for survival, as most of the hundred claim. He is self-aware enough to admit that he is a real asshole, always pushing people, pushing and pushing until they’re over the edge and someone gets punched in the face (usually him). He is an asshole, but at least he is honest about it, which is more than a lot of people can say about themselves.

But contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t born one. Just the world had been an asshole to him first. 

* * *

There are days when he feels like he shouldn’t have been even born. Days when he is convinced that the world was designed to sabotage him, to take away even the barest hint of any good thing that he could have had in his life. He was just set up to fail from the start. 

So it is only understandable he developed a defense mechanism. There is only so much pain a person can take before they reach their breaking point, and Murphy has surpassed three or four of those already. He has started building his wall, brick after brick of resolution to not let anyone inside to protect others as well as him, when he watched his father get floated for trying to save his miserable existence. When he looked on with wide eyes as his father pleaded with Jaha, grabbing at his feet; when his mother nearly smothered him in his grip; that was when the first brick fell into place. 

Another one soon followed when his mother started drinking, mumbling to him in her drunken haze,  _ you killed your father _ . Then the bricks just kept on coming. 

He knows he is a disaster; a danger to people around him. Wherever he goes, people die. 

And then of course Bellamy had to come along and tear the walls down, ruining it; ruining  _ him _ . 

* * *

When he finds Raven at the dropship, he isn’t lying when he says he came there to die. He  _ wants  _ to die. Having company for that is just an unexpected turn of events, but he is far too weak to totter somewhere else to do it. 

Honestly, he was hoping to be killed in the battle, or by the fire, but by some twisted miracle he is still alive. He has outlived his death more times than he can count, and somehow it feels like the universe is keeping him alive to punish him. No, the blissful darkness of death would have been too merciful for the likes of him, apparently. The suffering that is surviving seems to be his fate, never fully living, and never getting the release of death. 

He doesn’t even know why he tells Raven his story. Maybe because he wants somebody else to know how good his father was - much more good than Murphy could ever hope to be. Maybe because he is delirious from blood loss and the fever he got from infected wounds. Maybe because he is scared of dying with not a single soul (aside from Mbege, cold, and a few feet underground) knowing that John Murphy wasn’t born an asshole. 

Then Bellamy’s face fills up his vision and for a nanosecond, his heart jumps excitedly, before it  _ remembers  _ and then Bellamy is beating the shit out of him, Murphy hopes he fucking kills him already, but of course, he doesn’t. That would have been too easy. 

Murphy takes the beating because he knows he deserves it, and also - he doesn’t stand a chance against Bellamy even in his best shape and definitely not when he can barely stand. He stares up at Bellamy’s face, caked in blood and covered in dirt and grime, and thinks  _ Holy shit I don’t know what he would have to do to  _ not _ look hot _ , because dammit, even as he is now, dirty and disgusting and murderous rage written across his features, Murphy still finds him hot. It’s absurd, and Murphy is fucked up, but he never claimed otherwise. 

So he just lies there lifelessly and takes it. 

Right before Kane rips Bellamy off of him, through the blood dripping down his face and into his eyes, Murphy can see him hesitate for a fraction of a second. Something in Bellamy’s eyes shifts, something Murphy can’t understand, but he sees his raised fist stay in the air longer than necessary, Bellamy could’ve landed two punches already but he is not moving, why - and then he is gone and Murphy once again survives. 

Hurrah?

* * *

Being locked up in one room with Bellamy is about the second worst thing Murphy can imagine. He turns away as much as his restraints allow him, craning his neck painfully, and stares into nothingness stubbornly, not willing to torture himself by looking at Bellamy, his stupid face, his stupid freckles, or his stupidly depthless brown eyes. 

Or at the hatred and disgust written across his features.

He can hear Raven’s screams echo around the ruin that is the Ark and he wants to cover his ears but his hands are bound. He can feel Bellamy’s eyes boring into him, the intensity of the stare making his skin crawl. The “ _ this is your fault” _ is unspoken but very much present.

“Yeah, that was me at the Grounders’ camp.” 

Murphy didn’t intend to say it, but it flies out of his mouth, and then it’s in the open and he can’t take it back. He grimaces. How pathetic is he, still wanting to defend himself to people who hate him. (To  _ Bellamy _ , his mind corrects helpfully.) He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to prevent himself from saying any more, before the things he is keeping bottled up spill out.  _ They tortured me for three days. Three days before I told them anything.  _ Bellamy would be probably pleased to hear that because after all, isn’t that what Murphy deserves? 

His hands are shaking, so he balls them into fists. He risks a look at Bellamy and is astonished to not find hatred in those eyes, but some other emotion, unreadable, but scary nonetheless. 

"You should've held on longer," he says, and Murphy knows he is right. He should've never told them where to find everyone. Or they should've killed him after he did. 

Living with this constant hatred projected at him isn't sustainable for long. 

* * *

He still doesn’t understand why Bellamy took him with him, but when he almost falls down the cliff, Murphy pulls on the rope until he has rope burns all over his palms and the girl and Bellamy are up on the ground again, Bellamy’s chest heaving and disbelieving eyes trained onto Murphy. 

There is that weird  _ something _ in Bellamy’s eyes again and Murphy feels his skin tingle. Bellamy looking at him like that makes him want to run, so when they split he follows Finn. 

* * *

Stepping foot in a Grounder village again makes Murphy’s knees all wobbly and cold sweat roll down his back. He expects to find cages with prisoners in every place they search, and the echo of his own screams rings in his ears. 

He is holding onto his gun like a lifeline and his finger never leaves the trigger. 

But turns out, it’s mostly kids and old folks and no cages and no prisoners, and he can breathe a tiny bit more easily. 

That is before Finn empties out a rain of bullets into 18 bodies. 

It is with all of his willpower that Murphy doesn’t drop the gun in shock, blood draining from his face as the kids fall to the ground, corpses now. He looks at Finn and doesn’t see him, because the Spacewalker he knows is all sun and flowers and smiles and peace; and this person has manic eyes and a finger sure on the trigger. Finn is dead, he thinks, and when the others arrive, he can see on the Princess’ face she thinks the same.

The Prince is dead.

* * *

They make it back to camp. No one looks at Finn for the duration of the walk back, but Finn doesn’t look like he cares, eyes only on the Princess. Murphy heads off as soon as they step inside, and ignores the others calling something after him. He goes where his legs carry him, his mind foggy. He craves some of Monty’s Moonshine, then he remembers Monty is gone and the booze with him. 

He stops only when he is alone, in a secluded corner of the camp, behind a pile of metal scraps. Then he falls on his knees and heaves, throwing up the little he had in his stomach. 

Once done, Murphy is breathing heavily. His skin is crawling and he peers down on his hands on the ground and feels like these can’t be his, scarred, a layer of dirt glued to them like a second skin. Deformed nails only starting to grow back in after being torn off. 

Murphy’s mind is a mess, his own screams mingling with the Grounder kids’ ones in his head. Why is there death everywhere he steps foot? 

“Murphy?” 

Murphy’s heart does a loop because he would recognize Bellamy’s voice anywhere, but where once his heart would be singing with joy at hearing it, now he feels only cold dread form in his stomach. He whips around, his hands slip on the muddy ground and he sprawls out awkwardly on his back. And isn’t that just the perfect epitome of everything that has happened so far - Murphy lying in the dirt at Bellamy’s feet? Bellamy, the leader everyone looks up to, just like Murphy used to - until Bellamy hanged him to not lose face. Murphy, just dirt to everyone, to Bellamy, disgusting and spareable and unworthy of redemption. 

Right now Murphy hates Bellamy more than anyone in the world. 

Bellamy stares down at him with an unreadable face and Murphy feels his ears heat up. A blush is creeping up his neck from the humiliation of it all and he hates Bellamy a little bit more for that. 

“What do you want?” Murphy spits out, tries to put as much venom in the words as he can. From experience he knows that if he annoys Bellamy enough he will leave him alone, so he smirks and it’s only slightly shaky. 

“Came to punch me into the ground?” Murphy’s smirk widens, and he gestures around him. “Looks like I beat you to it.” 

“What? No,” Bellamy says incredulously like Murphy is dull-witted and not making any sense, which has his blood boiling in a second. Murphy snarls, exposing his teeth, and scrambles to stand up. Bellamy offers him a hand which Murphy smacks away. 

“Well, I dunno, seems to be your favourite pastime,” Murphy grits out and makes to leave, but Bellamy grabs his arm. Murphy yanks it out of his grasp as if it burned him. Bellamy’s eyes are wide when he slowly pulls his hand away and Murphy wants to scream. 

They are standing too close for Murphy’s comfort, almost chest to chest and he wants to turn around and run away from the intensity of Bellamy’s stare, to hide somewhere safe. But backing down now would be admitting to his cowardice; so he stands a little straighter and stays. 

Bellamy’s jaw works, and eventually, he says, “I came to look where you ran off to.” From his tone, Murphy can tell he saw him puking his guts out moments ago, and he hears the  _ pity _ . Bellamy fucking Blake fucking pities him. Murphy, the lowly, pitiful existence. He dares a look at Bellamy’s face and how does he have the audacity to look like he cares? (He remembers dreaming about this face and then kissing this face, and what he wouldn’t have done then for Bellamy to care for him; but now it’s too fucking late.)

Murphy grits his teeth, clenches his fists, and spits at Bellamy’s feet. “To get the hell away from you,” he snarls and this time Bellamy doesn’t stop him from leaving.

* * *

Murphy is surprised he gets his own room in the Ark, but then again it’s likely to keep him away from the others. Who would share a room with him anyway? Everyone hates him. 

His room is in the far end of Alpha Station, the most damaged by the landing. Not a lot of rooms are livable around these parts, a lot of them buried under tons of metal, the ceilings caved in, so it’s very cold all of the time, wind howling in through the cracks. 

Now that the Princess is back, Murphy is sure Clarke is somehow responsible for his shitty living conditions. 

But the room has a door he can lock, so Murphy doesn’t really care about the cold.

* * *

Murphy is up and about even before the sun has risen, marching around the camp with hands stuffed in his pockets to hide their shaking. 

Having a room to himself turned out to be good in the end, because when he screams himself awake from his nightmares, there is no one he can wake up by it, and no one to pry. 

Finn butchering the Grounder village brought up unclosed wounds and his old nightmares came back, only peppered with newer additions to the bunch.  _ The dead bodies of the Grounder kids tearing at him with his rotting hands, and he can’t move, and he should’ve stopped Finn, he should’ve done something, but he can’t even say he is sorry because he can’t move- _

Murphy shakes his head firmly to try and rid himself of the mental image, and catches movement in the corner of his eyes. Raven is wobbling around with the prosthesis the engineering guy who has a crush on her made her, carrying a huge compartment in her arms, far too heavy for her Murphy concludes. 

He is in front of her and extending his arms before he can think twice about it. Raven looks up at him, first surprised, then annoyed. 

“Get the hell out of my way, Murphy,” she growls. 

“Hey, back off, would you?” Murphy raises his hand in defense. “You look like this thing is gonna topple you over. I can carry it for you.”

Raven laughs in his face. “So you can drop it on my good leg, huh?” She steps around him and nudges him harshly with her elbow. “Go bother someone else, it’s too fucking early for this, Murphy.” 

Murphy is left standing there, anger bubbling inside him, but other than that he is hollow. He is  _ trying _ , but no one else is.

He gets the weird feeling of being watched, but when he turns around Raven is resolutely marching away with her back to him. Murphy looks searchingly around and - there. Bellamy is standing close to the entrance to the Ark, and great, now Murphy’s humiliation is complete. He stuffs his hands back into his pockets, face heating up, and goes to find a place he can be pathetic alone.

* * *

Murphy is assigned to building shelters as the Ark cannot house everyone and he gets paired up with Monroe. Murphy doesn’t really know her, doesn’t have anything against her, but he concludes she hates him as much as the others do and that knowledge is enough to keep his distance and don’t speak to her until it’s absolutely necessary. 

“Sterling was my friend,” she stammers out of the blue. When Murphy turns to her, surprised, she isn’t looking at him, rather staring off into the distance, but it’s clear she is talking to him - there is no one else around.

“That sucks,” Murphy offers, because what is he supposed to say? Fake condolences are just adding salt to raw wounds. And yeah, it sucks watching your friends die.  _ Another day in paradise.  _ “Mbege was mine,” he adds, not even sure why, like she would care. 

Monroe turns to face him. “Sucks.” 

“Yeah.”

They work in silence for a few minutes. Just as Murphy is fastening the knot on the tent, Monroe speaks up. “Me and Finn would’ve never pulled them up. You could’ve let Bellamy fall, just like Sterling. No one could’ve blamed his death on you. Why did you help him?”

Murphy scoffs, his automatic response of smirking and saying something offensive is ready on the tip of his tongue. But Monroe’s friend is dead and so is his, and he is just so tired from being an asshole to everyone so he blurts out, “Maybe I just don’t want more people to die because of me,” surprising even himself. 

Monroe eats dinner with him that day. And the next.

Maybe he is salvageable, he dares to hope in a small part of his soul.

* * *

The first thing he stole on the Ark were coffee beans, which he proceeded to crush and made his mother eat them in hope it would wake her up. It only made her vomit more. 

Since then, he has stolen a lot of things, trained his senses to be hyper-aware of his surroundings, his fingers to be quick, and his steps light and soundless. He is good at stealing, and also at hiding, so he is more than surprised when someone enters his hideout at the far end of the camp. 

He looks up when Clarke shuffles in and expects her to just turn around and march straight out when she notices him, but she just rolls her eyes and plops down next to him. Murphy stays alert and he is pulled tight like a string, ready to bolt if Clarke was to pull out a weapon. He watches her out the corner of his eye, but she just sits there. 

“Who you’re hiding from?” she probes after a while of silence, and Murphy stays staring at her incredulously for a few moments before he collects himself. 

“Pissed off some people,” he replies casually. “Better to stay put if I don’t wanna be chased around camp.”

“How very Murphy of you,” Clarke exclaims, and Murphy wonders if he is in another dimension. The Princess herself, joking with him. 

“And you, Princess?” he needles, watching the way her jaw tenses. “Let me guess, hiding from Spacewalker.” 

Clarke shoots him a look but nods sternly. Murphy understands her perfectly - witnessing someone you trust ( _ love _ ) turn into a monster isn’t pretty. Betrayal is bitter and it stings. 

“Right now I need to focus on getting everyone out of Mt. Weather and Finn keeps distracting me,” Clarke breathes out eventually. 

Murphy stares at his hands, not looking up when he murmurs, “Yeah, about that - if you need any help, just let me know.” It’s probably stupid of him, assuming the Princess would want  _ his  _ help of all people, but after what he went through, he wouldn't wish torture on anyone. Even though Miller is sort of a dick. Not even assholes deserve to be tortured. 

He feels Clarke’s eyes on him, the silence stretches on uncomfortably until it’s suffocating. Just when he is about to make a self-deprecating joke, Clarke remarks, “You’re serious.” It’s not a question, and there is disbelief in her voice. 

She is mocking him. Of course. They don’t even trust him with a gun, and here he goes offering his help, unwanted help, like an idiot. Murphy’s face immediately heats up and he growls, getting up swiftly. Oh, right, forgot about the whole we-don’t-trust-Murphy agenda for a moment.” He scuffles around her in the cramped space to get to the exit. “Will keep in my line in the future, Princess.”

“Wait, Murphy-” she calls after him, but Murphy runs away faster than she can finish her sentence. He is halfway to the Ark when he realizes why he was hiding in the first place, and quickly beelines for the far end of it, where he can climb in through the fallen roof. 

  
  


Murphy huffs as he jumps down into the room opposite his, grimacing at the state of it. It really seems his is the only habitable room in this whole wing. 

He pries the metal door open - it went with resistance and a lot of creaking, but he is finally out in the hallway. 

“Murph?” 

Murphy bristles and there is a scowl already forming on his face when he turns to face Bellamy. How does he dare to call him by a nickname, how does he dare to be here, how- 

The audacity. 

“Shouldn’t you be guarding something, or now the King doesn’t even have to work?” Murphy spats out, looking over Bellamy’s guard attire and the gun slung over his shoulder. His eyes widen when he realizes what this probably means. Either the Arkers he pissed off had complained to Kane, or Clarke has been exceptionally fast at sending Bellamy after him. 

He starts backing away towards his room, slowly. He has a bag of supplies ready to go in case he needs to run. He only needs to get into the room, lock it, then wait for Bellamy to go get reinforcements, climb through the roof, and then out the fence.

What then, he doesn’t know. Maybe he will end up in a Grounder cage again. 

But he isn’t letting them lock him up. 

“I just got done with my shift,” Bellamy says, almost casually, as if none of this is happening. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I came here.”

“Uh-huh,” Murphy hums. He is maybe half a meter away from the door. 

“Look, I wanted to- I wanted to thank you.”

_ What? _

“What?” Murphy stays staring at him, frozen in place. 

Bellamy rubs his neck, a nervous habit of his Murphy has noticed before. He frowns momentarily - he shouldn’t notice Bellamy, or his habits, or how good he looks no matter what he does. _Stupid_. 

“For… for saving my life. I mean, for the cliff.” Bellamy offers him a shaky smile. “You could’ve let me fall. So thank you.” 

_ But I also tried to kill you _ . Murphy continues to eye Bellamy warily, not sure where he is going with this. They tried to kill each other, hurt each other so many times. 

Bellamy takes a step forward, his face suddenly all mushy and soft and oh god. He swallows anxiously and Murphy can’t help but follow the movement of his Adam apple with his eyes. 

“Murphy, I-” 

“Look, if you think the fact that I didn’t let you fall to your death changes anything, then you’re wrong,” Murphy blurts out, cutting him off, because Bellamy is in front of him and he is looking at him like he used to, and Murphy can’t handle that. “If I let you fall, then Monroe and Finn would have shot me before you even hit the ground, so. Don’t get any ideas.”

Bellamy nods slowly, but he can see in his face that Murphy isn’t convincing enough. Something in his face must be showing what is going on in his head because he leans closer instead of stepping away. 

“I think it changes a lot, Murph,” Bellamy whispers with his face practically a breath away from Murphy’s, and this is not fair. Murphy does his best to hate him, to remind himself of what Bellamy has done to him, but there is always that voice that whispers in his head,  _ He tried to kill you, you tried to kill him, doesn’t that make you even?  _ And then Bellamy comes to him and is so close and it's just - not fair. 

“And I think you know it too,” Bellamy adds and in the next second, he is gone, giving Murphy the much-needed space. Murphy slumps on the wall, breathing hard. He swears he sees Bellamy smirk, and then he is walking away. 

“It changes nothing!” Murphy calls after him, but it sounds pathetic even to his ears.

* * *

It’s dark already when he is making his way back to his room, a day of hard labour behind him, but Monroe ate with him in the mess hall again, and he managed to avoid running into both Bellamy and Clarke, so Murphy considers this the best day he has had in a long time. 

At the moment, the Princess and Bellamy are inside with Princess’ mother - who still hasn’t caught up with the program that it’s her daughter and not her who calls the shots anymore - and Kane and everyone important scrambling to come up with something to save Finn and Murphy has to scoff at the irony of it all. They want to save Finn who murdered eighteen people, but hanged  _ him  _ for not being well-liked. 

Murphy is walking by the fence, the slight buzzing of electricity somewhat a calming sound, so he avoids any unnecessary interactions. He is keeping his head down, so when someone runs into him, it sends him down on his ass with the force of it. Murphy winces and looks up, scoffing. “Hey, take it easy, grounder-pounder-”

He cannot even finish his sentence before Octavia roars in fury and jumps on him, and before he can even process what’s happening, she is punching him in the face again and again, gritting out, “Don’t talk about Lincoln,” while she is doing it, accompanying each word with a punch. 

“Troubles in paradise?” Murphy wheezes, because he just can’t help himself, and because he is angry Octavia has ruined his otherwise not so bad day. Octavia’s face hardens and she stops punching him, momentarily giving Murphy a chance to breathe and cough out blood, before she has her hands around his neck and squeezes. 

Murphy trashes under her because this is just too much like the hanging, ugly memories flash in his mind, of a trusted face who kicked the crate from under him, and Bellamy’s features blur into Octavia’s above him. Ironic, what one sibling started, the other is going to finish. 

He can’t breathe, blood is pounding in his ears and black dots swim across his vision. Murphy grabs Octavia’s hands around his neck and claws at them, trying to pry them off, but damn she is strong. He is getting weaker by the second and a little voice in his head pipes up,  _ Why fight it? Not like somebody would care if you died.  _

Murphy numbly stops his efforts and drops his hands. “Just  _ finish it _ ,” he manages to rasp out, and he doesn’t see the surprised expression run across Octavia’s face through the black seeping into his vision.

Then suddenly the weight on his body and the pressure on his neck are gone, he sees only black above him and Murphy wonders,  _ did I die? Is this it? _

“-phy? Murphy!”

Someone slaps him across the face, hard, and then again when he doesn't respond. Murphy blinks away the dots dancing in front of his eyes and draws in a shaky breath, then proceeds to cough until his throat is sore and bleeding, immediately upon that he rolls over and vomits. When he feels like he can breathe again, he rolls on his back tiredly and stares right into Bellamy’s alarmed face. 

“Your sister is a bitch,” he informs him, his own voice so hoarse it startles him before darkness envelopes him and he passes out. 

* * *

When Murphy comes to, everything hurts, and he groans. When he lolls his head, it hits something hard, and his eyes fly open. 

“Oh  _ my  _ God, Blake,  _ put me down _ !” 

If being beaten up by a girl wasn’t embarrassing enough, being carried by Bellamy Blake will do him in just fine. People are staring at them as Bellamy carries him through the hallways of the Ark, and Murphy wants to bury himself somewhere and never show his face again. 

“Stop trashing!” is Bellamy’s only response, and a barked “Get out of the way!” has everyone scrambling to make room for them. Murphy’s limbs hang limply and his head is too heavy and he is too weak to fight Bellamy right now, so he just hides his face in Bellamy’s shoulder, seeping the fabric with blood. 

When they reach medical, Princess’ mother’s assistant jumps up and starts fretting over him at once. 

“What happened? Was it the Grounders? Did they hurt any others?” he worries and Murphy scoffs. He feels rather than sees the warning look Bellamy gives him, so he coughs out, “Yeah, it was Grounders. A Grounder bitch.” His voice is so rough and raspy it makes him wince internally. 

They lie him down on the table and he is swaying on the brink of consciousness, their voices only a humm in the background when he feels hands lifting up his shirt. 

“No!” 

Murphy is suddenly fully awake and alert and frantically pushing at the hands on his clothes. “No, she punched me only in the face, there is no need to take off my clothes,” he rasps out quickly, chest heaving as he clutches his threadbare T-shirt to his chest. 

Murphy doesn’t want anyone to see the mess of scar tissue and burns his torso has become. He doesn’t need to see the disgust on their faces, he doesn’t need to hear that he should’ve held on longer, shouldn’t have told the Grounders anything. Should’ve let them kill him. 

He knows that already. 

He avoids the questioning stares, rather closing his eyes. “C’mon doc, get it over with.” 

He falls asleep with the doctor patching him up and Bellamy’s eyes on him. 

* * *

_ There is a Grounder standing in front of him, Murphy limply hanging by his bound wrists, as he cuts yet another line into his chest, and another and another. Murphy can’t even scream anymore, his voice is just a whisper,  _

_ “I won’t tell you anything, you can kill me but I won’t…” _

_ The Grounder roughly grabs his chin and forces his head up. “Oh, believe me, pretty sky boy, you will.”  _

_ Then he unbounds Murphy, everything hurts, and Murphy slumps to the ground but he drags him away by his hair…  _

_ “No, please, please,... I will do anything you want!”  _

“Murphy! Murphy, wake up!” 

Someone is shaking him and Murphy shoots up, chest heaving and throat raw from screaming. He frantically looks around, automatically moving backwards on the bed when he notices a dark figure next to his bed, shuffling away on his palms and heels until his back hits the wall. For a second he thinks it’s a Grounder and it wasn’t a nightmare and oh god if it’s  _ real-  _ a frightened whimper escapes him, he clutches at the thin blanket. 

But it’s only Bellamy. Brown eyes wide and staring at him as though he grew a second head. Murphy would like nothing more than to hide under his blanket, he never wanted Bellamy to witness him this weak, this pathetic and broken. 

“What are you doing here?” Murphy asks tiredly instead. It lacks his usual fire; Murphy just feels so hollow. 

Bellamy clears his throat. “Jackson said it wasn’t necessary to keep you in medical, so I carried you to your room.” 

He is too tired to feel embarrassed at being carried by Bellamy,  _ twice _ , like a fucking damsel in distress, so he only attempts a half-hearted glare.

“Why did you stay though?” 

“I didn’t. I only came here now to check on you and you, uh… had a nightmare.” He words it very carefully, as though Murphy might break down if Bellamy says it out loud. 

“Well, I have them every night, so nothing new there,” Murphy snaps at him. “How is your grounder-pounder sister?” he changes the subject, because he is no not talking about his nightmares with Bellamy.

“Lincoln turned into a reaper,” Bellamy blurts out after a moment of hesitation. “So O is very on edge-” 

“Hey, you don’t have to defend her to me,” Murphy waves him off. “I get it, a Blake needs to blow off some steam, beating me seems to be the popular way to do it,” he adds, pushing Bellamy who winces at his words aside so he can get up and throw this idiot out. 

“Whoah, you shouldn’t be getting up yet I think,” Bellamy’s voice is strained, and he stops him with a hand on Murphy’s chest. 

“Can we talk about yesterday-”

It’s not a forceful touch, it’s actually quite gentle, but Murphy pushes him away as if he struck him, making Bellamy stumble back. It sparked up the phantom pain of knives cutting into him, and he can’t take that right now. 

“Don’t touch me!” Murphy bites out. Bellamy freezes with his hand midair, studying him with a weird look in his eyes. 

“You’re crying,” Bellamy murmurs eventually. Murphy’s hand flies up to his face and finds wet tracks on his skin. His face heats up. Dammit - Murphy doesn’t always wake up from his nightmares crying, but this one has been particularly nasty. He is trying to come up with some witty response, when Bellamy is suddenly in his personal space, hand reaching out and brushing Murphy’s cheek. 

In an instant, Murphy’s fist collides with his face. “Get out!” he shouts, but his voice breaks. “Get out, go away! Stop acting as if you care!” Murphy pushes Bellamy, who has blood running down his face, and continues pushing him until he is out in the hallway, then slams the door in his face. Breathing raggedly, Murphy leans against it and slowly slides down on the floor, hugging his knees into his chest and burying his head in them. Bellamy bangs on the door a few times and shouts something, but Murphy covers his ears with shaking hands. 

He holds in the sobs until he hears Bellamy’s footsteps fade out.


	2. and I'm faded away, you know, I used to be on fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! thank you for every feedback on the last chapter, I really appreciated it! Anyhow, here is chapter two, longer than the first one, but I couldn't figure out a place to cut it off to my satisfaction, so it's kind of very long :D
> 
> Also, forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but English is not my first language, so I'm very sorry for any mistakes you might find. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

“What _happened_ to your face?” 

Murphy grimaces when he glimpses the shock on Monroe’s face, her hands going slack for a moment and dropping the seatbelt-turned-rope she was holding when Murphy shows up for work. It must be pretty bad, then. He has yet to look into a mirror, but he can imagine the mess of bruises blossoming all over his face, mingling with fresh scabs and old scars. 

His skin is like a canvas that keeps getting ripped apart, painted with a story of so much rage, hurt, violence. Murphy can only imagine how much more it can take. 

“Nothing,” Murphy grumbles, kicks at the ground, looks anywhere but at his… friend? (maybe-friend? meal-companion? person-who-doesn’t-hate him? Murphy has never been very good at the whole friendship thing so he is not really sure how it works). Monroe gives him a stern look, bordering on one of a mother scolding a misbehaving child, and he sighs, looking up at the sky as if asking, _why me?_

“Octavia happened,” Murphy shrugs eventually and goes on to tear up parachutes for new tents when Monroe stops him with a hand on his forearm. Murphy flinches just slightly. 

“Why?” she just asks. “Did you piss her off?” 

“By existing, I guess.” Murphy kicks on a pebble on the ground and follows it with his eyes as it flies away. 

“She’s changed,” Monroe mumbles, voice lowered. “Bellamy and Clarke would never say as much, but she is more of a Grounder than one of us now.” She gives him a small smile. “So don’t dwell on it. She is a bitch.”

That startles a laugh out of Murphy, and holy shit, it has been a while since he laughed. 

It has been a while since someone has got his back, too

* * *

Bellamy catches him just as he is about to dive into his meal, and sits across from him. “Can we talk?” 

Monroe sitting next to him shoots a questioning glare at Murphy, asking if he is okay with it. He shrugs, so she collects her things and leaves, eying Bellamy warily. 

“So you and Monroe, huh? Friends now?” Bellamy asks, voice strained to sound casual. 

Murphy raises an eyebrow at him. “Is it that weird that someone might like me?”

“Murphy-” 

“So, anything particular you wanna ruin my dinner with?” 

Bellamy sighs a long, suffering sigh, but leans in closer. “I wanted to thank you for not telling on Octavia,” he murmurs in a low voice. “And apologize again for her. She was not in her right mind yesterday. Lincoln-”

“Cut the crap, Bellamy,” Murphy jumps in. “I didn’t tell on your sister, and I’m not planning on doing it, so you can spare me the heartwrenching details of her love life.” 

Bellamy frowns at him. “I just want to say I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have taken her anger out on you-”

“And since when does that bother you, huh?” The words fly out of his mouth. “You used to do it all the time. Don’t like sharing your punching bag?”

The satisfaction from seeing Bellamy wince is so worth it. 

Bellamy, who looks supremely uncomfortable. His eyes keep flickering worriedly to Murphy’s neck, where dark bruises mark the line where Octavia tried to squeeze his life out of him. 

If only she squeezed hard enough. 

“Can’t we have a normal conversation for at least five seconds?” Bellamy huffs, breaking the stiff silence. “Tone down the sarcasm for once, would you?”

Murphy gasps obnoxiously, and dramatically puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me. That’s like my whole personality, Blake. You want me to town down my personality?”

“I think there is a lot more to you than sarcasm,” Bellamy breaths out, and Murphy blushes, trying to cover it up by dropping his head and letting hair fall into his face. 

“You mean my incredible ability to make people hate me in under thirty seconds?” 

“No one hates you, Murph.” Bellamy is getting exasperated. 

Murphy cackles. “A good one.” Honestly, it must be so easy to be Bellamy. Living in a world where people like you, and wanna be friends with you. Not feeling so _angry_ all the time. Not being a fucking wreck like Murphy, whose emotions are all over the place, and who wants nothing more than to be understood even though he himself can’t explain what’s happening inside his head. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Fine. Be an ass. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m sorry, and I won’t let it happen again.” 

Murphy only snorts at that and stares into his food until Bellamy leaves with a grump. 

Some small, traitorous part of him wants to believe him. 

The other part knows where trusting Bellamy left him last time. With a crimson red noose around his neck. 

* * *

Murphy wakes up into being surrounded by Grounders. 

Well, not _him_ in particular. (Thank the fuck god.) The whole camp, actually. 

His sleep schedule (if you can even call it that) is whack, only squeezing in a couple hours of dreamless sleep when he is on the brink of passing out from exhaustion, before the nightmares come. So it’s 4 in the morning when he steps outside to get some fresh air, still pitch black. 

For a moment it’s like he is back in space - a dark canvas dotted with hundreds of lights stretching in front of him. Murphy pinches himself before he recognizes the lights for what they are - torches. 

Murphy manages to stagger over to the fire pit, now cold, and plops down on one of the logs, still staring at the sea of fluttering torches in bewilderment; each of the torches representing a pissed-off Grounder.

He knew they wanted Finn, just didn’t know they wanted him _that_ bad. 

“Can’t sleep, huh?” 

Murphy nods as Raven sits down next to him, bundled up in a big borrowed jacket, a sour expression on her face. Murphy expects her to snap something at him, but rather, she sighs and hides her face in her hands. “They kicked me out of the meeting,” she complains, pouting.

“About Finn?” She nods. “Well, I can see where they’re coming from. You’re more than a little biased,” Murphy teases. 

Raven punches him in the shoulder. Murphy winces, but shakes it off as nothing nonchalantly, earning a laugh from her. In reality, it hurt like a bitch. She could probably beat him in a fight if she really set her mind on it. Physical strength has never been Murphy’s domain after all, with him being all skinny and lanky. 

“But they’re gonna figure something out,” Murphy offers, gaze trained in front of him, afraid his help is going to be unwanted again. “Finn is gonna be okay.”

Raven looks up at him with sad eyes, and even a sadder smile. “Yeah, I think he will.”

* * *

He has a gun now. 

Huh. Wow. Go figure. 

“Hey, shithead,” Raven greets him as she smacks him upside his head. Murphy looks up at her from where he is crouched down next to the fence, gun in hand, ready to take down any Grounder that wanders close enough to shoot. He braces himself for the bitching to come, however surprisingly it doesn’t.

“We’re bringing Finn to the dropship. Clarke’s mom wants to give him up.” She pauses for a moment. “Follow me in five, and bring the gun.”

Murphy feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards when she leaves. 

* * *

He really shouldn’t be that surprised when Raven aims the gun at him and proposes they give him up instead. He shouldn’t be, but he is, because he let himself hope, and he should just really fucking learn from his mistakes. Trusting people is always a bad idea; it got him hanged, kicked out and thrown to the Grounders; now it’s about to happen a second time and Murphy is cursing himself in his head. _All just an act_. Pretending they cared, that he could be forgiven, that he could be one of them again. 

He won’t be; it’s him and them, not us. 

His eyes shine with unshed tears as he steps up to meet Raven’s gun, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken. She can shoot him if she wants to - he isn’t going back to the Grounders in a million years. 

He was right. He is only alive to be punished. 

Bellamy and Clarke oppose Raven, hesitantly, late, too fucking late. It doesn’t matter anymore, _they_ don’t matter anymore and never will again, because he _won’t_ let them. 

There is a sort of pained expression on Bellamy’s face as he sees Murphy bringing his walls back up behind those blue eyes of his. _It changes nothing_ , Murphy told him about saving Bellamy’s life, and that was the truth. 

Bellamy is still the golden leader, and Murphy is still… Murphy. Angry. Sparable. Good as bait, not as a friend. 

They keep dangling their forgiveness in front of him, hope for a fresh start, for being one of them again. 

They keep dangling it only to snatch it away the very next moment. 

Well, he is done with that. They can keep their forgiveness. 

He is just done.

* * *

He bundles himself on his bed, curled into a tiny ball, a pillow clutched over his head, but he still hears the drums, and the shouting, and then a long, wailed scream that can either be coming from Raven or Clarke. He is not sure, he doesn’t care. They don’t matter to him. 

He is glad for Finn though. Murphy recognized it on his face, when he gave himself up to the Grounders, the same thing Murphy has inside him - a will to die. Finn was haunted just as he is, but Finn is freed, and Murphy is still caged. 

_It should’ve been you_ , echoes around in his head, and he knows it’s true. Everyone out there wishes it was his execution instead.

The whole ordeal makes him physically sick and as nausea rolls through his body, he remembers an old quote Mbege found in one of those books of his - the one out of the duo who could actually read. 

_Each betrayal begins with trust._

* * *

Murphy is half-dead on his legs, dragging himself to the mess hall because he hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. He would pretend to be sick for longer but staring at the wall in his eerily quiet corner of the Alpha Station was driving him absolutely insane.

As he nears, he prays to whoever or whatever deity is out there that he is late enough for no one to be there, or at least, no one he knows. But of course, his luck is practically non-existing, so _everyone_ he knows is there. 

When Murphy enters, he feels like the chatter dies down a little, but that’s probably his paranoia. He spots Bellamy instantly, sitting at a table with Clarke, and a few tables away from them, Raven and her engineering boyfriend - Mick? - with a protective arm around her. Clarke turns to stare at him. Bellamy jumps up when he sees him, literally jumps out of his chair making it topple over like the fucking drama queen he is, drawing all attention to them. His ears turn cherry red. Fucking fantastic.

Luckily, with a huge amount of relief, he notices Monroe on the other end of the mess hall furiously waving him over. He beelines straight towards her, completely ignoring Bellamy. Out of the corner of his eye though, he sees him standing there awkwardly until Clarke forces him back down. 

“Hey, they finally let you out?” Monroe asks eagerly as soon as he is seated, rendering him to blink at her owlishly with his red-rimmed eyes as his tired brain scrambles to catch up. 

“Huh?” is what he comes up with.

“From medical? Chancellor Griffin wouldn’t let anyone see you, said you had some contagious disease. Bellamy was fighting pretty hard to be let in though,” she adds with a smirk. “Wanna clue me in on that one?”

Murphy is dumbstruck, then feels a sort of a warmth spread inside him. When he staggered to medical that evening they took Finn, claiming to be sick, he was expecting to be thrown out very shortly. However, he was totally out of it, lost too deep in his head. He wanted to be put off work, he couldn’t deal with _them_ , not in this state. 

Abby Griffin took one look at him and hummed softly, promptly leading him away to his room. “Heartache is a dangerous killer,” he remembers her whispering at some point on their way through the rarely used, back hallways. Abby laid him down, told him not to worry and take his time, bringing him food and water ever since. Giving him the solitude he needed to start healing. 

He might’ve done something really stupid in those days if Abby didn’t check on him. He is pretty sure he owes her his life. 

“I wasn’t in medical,” Murphy corrects Monroe. “I was in my room. Just...wasn’t feeling up to it.” 

Monroe’s brows furrow in confusion. “Up to what? Murphy, what’s going on?”

 _Up to life_ , Murphy thinks darkly. He contemplates making up a story of eating a poisonous berry or some shit, but he feels too hollow, too gouged out to lie to her. So what if she knows, and if she says, _well, it’s logical. We could keep the alliance, keep Finn, and be rid of you. How clever of Raven._

Just another nail to his coffin. 

So he hears himself speak mechanically, his voice flat and void of emotion. “Raven asked me to help her, Bellamy and Clarke guard Finn at the Dropship, because the Chancellor wanted to give him up. When I got there, she pitched the brilliant idea of giving them me to torture, that they would believe I was the shooter. Finn wouldn’t have it, though. Pity, I know-”

He didn’t even finish speaking and Monroe is suddenly up, a deadly glare pointed somewhere over his left shoulder. 

“What the fuck, Raven?” she thunders. Murphy freezes, and now the chatter in the room died down for sure. It’s so quiet you could drop a pin and it would be deafeningly loud. Monroe next to him is quivering. 

“What?” Raven calls out, standing up as well. She is sporting eye-bags the size of Murphy’s, and her face is contorted in anger. “What’s your problem?”

“And you, Bellamy, I thought better of you,” Monroe continues, ignoring her, and Murphy isn’t sure if he wants to hug her or shut her up. He tugs on her sleeve, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “It’s not worth it, c’mon, let’s just leave-”

“No, Murphy!” she yanks her arms away and takes a few advancive steps towards the Dropship betrayers, who are all standing up now and huddled together. He doesn’t dare look at them, rather staring resolutely at his hands. If he had nails, they would be leaving red crescent marks in his palms right now. 

“Ever since we got here, you have your little bubble and when you’re safe, all is good. That my friends are dying inside that fucking mountain can wait, right? But when Finn _murders_ eighteen people, saving him from the consequences is top priority.” Monroe carries on speaking, her voice booming around the eerily quiet room. Murphy is proud of her. Murphy also knows he is so going to get killed for this. 

He can just imagine all the ways Raven is plotting their murder in her head. It’s - or it was - her (cheating) boyfriend after all. And Murphy can honestly understand why she hates him. He would hate himself too. 

“My _girlfriend_ is dying inside that mountain.” Monroe’s voice cracks. 

Murphy glances at the group then, and all of them, even Raven, have the audacity to look away, hopefully ashamed. He can also see on their faces they know what Monroe is going to reveal. Clarke’s face is pleading. _Not here. We need unity_. “Monroe,” he whispers again, but she doesn’t budge. 

“Murphy keeps trying, and you keep treating him like shit.” She pauses to take a breath, chest heaving. “I saw him pull you up that cliff, Bellamy.”

Oh no. Please no. Murphy can never ever show his face anywhere again. He gets up and tugs at Monroe’s hand, pulling her towards the exit doors. “C’mon, let’s go, I’m telling you, they don’t care-”

“He wouldn’t let you fall,” Monroe spats, not listening. “And you? Letting your crazy-ass sister beat the absolute fuck out of him.” There is a sharp inhale and Murphy feels so many eyes on him. “Offering him up to people who _tortured_ him.” Every word is biting and chilling to the bone, but _it’s not like Bellamy cares_. Not like any of them do. 

“I don’t know why I ever looked up to you,” Monroe hisses, and a memory flashes in front of his eyes - him, Mbege, Monroe and Miller and Roma and Bellamy, laughing together sitting under a tree, tossing nuts at each other. 

Then it’s gone and the warmth of the sun rays with it. There is only cold, and stares and Murphy would faint if Monroe’s hand in his wasn’t warm enough for the both of them. 

“I’ve lost my appetite. Let’s go, Murphy,” she declares, voice normal again as if none of that just happened. She leads him away, and Murphy feels like the silence, the walls, the people, are suffocating him. He keeps his eyes firmly fixated on the ground until they exit the room, and only then he releases the breath he was holding just as the mess hall erupts in chaos. 

“Let’s go, before they come for us,” Monroe suggests and Murphy complies because that is a brilliant idea. 

They climb up one of the broken ceilings of Murphy’s wing, as he came to call it, hiding behind a metal compartment on the roof, invisible to the world. From where he is perched, Murphy can spot Clarke’s blonde hair fluttering in the wind, and Bellamy’s curls jumping on his head as they run around camp like lost chickens, and snorts. 

“I’m really sorry, Murphy.” Monroe, shivering from the biting cold, gently places a hand on his knee. She came to realize he doesn’t like forceful, unexpected touches, and Murphy likes her even more for that. “That was terrible of them.” She shakes her head. “I meant what I said though. I feel like ever since the Ark came down, they ascended to the Council room and forgot the rest of us exist.” 

There might be some truth in that, but Murphy doesn’t have the energy to have that conversation.

“I’m really sorry about Harper,” he whispers eventually, barely audible over the howling wind. He catches a glimpse of Bellamy running in circles down on the ground. 

“Yeah, well,” Monroe laughs wetly. “I’m sorry Bellamy is such a dick.”

Murphy chuckles. Monroe was one of the few people who knew of their romance back then, having walked on them accidentally. Twice. The poor girl's eyes. 

“Love sucks,” Murphy concludes and Monroe nods. 

“Yeah. In the best way possible.”

* * *

They stay up there until it’s not bearable anymore, and their fingers have turned red from the cold. 

Climbing down with numb limbs proves to be more difficult than he anticipated, with Murphy falling rather than jumping down. 

When they open the door, Bellamy is on the floor, leaning against the wall next to Murphy’S room, head tilted sideways and eyelids fluttering in his sleep. Murphy resolutely stares anywhere else than at his exposed throat. (Of a man who wanted to hand him over for torture with a 0% survival rate. _Get it together, you sick fuck_.)

Monroe immediately adopts a defensive stance, however, Murphy ushers her away. “Go get some sleep,” he suggests. “I can handle this.” 

She eyes him dubiously, but scrambles off shortly after, unable to fight a series of yawns that have Murphy pushing her in the direction of her room. She seems nearly as dead on her feet as Murphy is. He hopes for her sake it’s not nightmares. 

Murphy slams the door to the roof, hard, and Bellamy jerks awake, scrambling to get up, hair disheveled, eyes wide and disoriented. Until they land on Murphy. Then they fill up with all kinds of stuff Murphy doesn’t wanna see there, like regret, guilt, and of course, pity. 

“Leave,” Murphy demands quietly, shoving him out of his way. Bellamy catches his wrist but thinks better of it, as he drops it a second later. 

“Let me explain,” Bellamy pleads, voice strained with desperation. “Please.” 

“Leave.” 

“Please, Murphy, you got it all wrong-”

“There is _nothing_ -” Murphy sneers, spitting out every word, “ _nothing_ I could’ve gotten wrong about that.” 

Bellamy looks so very small at that moment. “I never wanted-”

“Just leave, Blake.” 

“I didn’t know-”

“I don’t care.” Murphy finally glances up at Bellamy’s face and sees his jaw set in place, and he knows what that means - Bellamy is a stubborn asshole, and he set his mind on talking to Murphy. 

“Fine, suit yourself,” he snaps, quickly opening his door and dashing inside, locking it. His heart jumps when Bellamy pounds on the door, the whole frame rattling. _I’m done_ , he reminds himself. _Done. No more false hope._

“Murphy, please, open it.”

No more. False hope kills. … Then why does his entire being long to open the stupid door?

“I’m not gonna let you go again.” Bellamy’s voice is muffled by the metal.

Murphy throws one of his boots at the door. 

* * *

When Jaha asks him to show him Wells’s grave, Murphy goes because he doesn’t have anything better to do. He avoids Raven, Bellamy, and Clarke like the plague. Every time he sees them, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction. Monroe’s speech and her constant scowls in their direction also keep them at bay. (Well, not like Raven is trying, and Clarke gave up pretty quickly, but Bellamy still looks like it physically pains him when Murphy turns in the opposite direction to avoid him.)

But when Jaha requests him to go on the absolutely crazy journey that is going to get everyone killed and Jaha with them, Murphy declines. Even though nothing sounds better to him right now than not having to return to camp and face the people there, he can clearly see the insanity shining through Jaha’s eyes, simmering under the surface. And he certainly doesn’t like all the people with guns he brought with him. 

So he runs. 

Someone shouts “He’s going to tell the chancellor!” and then they are chasing him. Murphy runs until his lungs burn, and then he still runs until his legs ache, and then he still runs, and then he is falling down a hill, hitting every damn rock in the process.

  
  


Everything is hazy and unfocused and also twice there. Murphy hears some shouting, so he doesn’t move, and eventually, it fades out. He hopes they think he’s dead. His ankle hurts like a motherfucker and Murphy is pretty sure he has a couple of ribs broken. 

He has lived through worse though. 

Just as he finally managed to drag himself onto all four, a cylindrical tube rolls down the hill, landing in front of him. 

Before Murphy can shove it away, smoke comes out, and he comes down. 

* * *

He wakes up to a lot of white. 

Like, a _lot_ lot. So much white it makes his eyes hurt and tears roll down his face until his eyes get accustomed to the bright whiteness of it all. 

Then he hears the beeping. Continuous, and madly annoying. His head hurts and is foggy, likely still from the fall. Murphy brings his hand up to cover his eyes - it goes only a few centimeters off the bed before a chain rattles and then Murphy opens his eyes for real. 

And screams.

* * *

He continues to scream, bites at the hands that keep injecting him with who-knows-what drugs, so much that they put a gag on him. 

He doesn’t know how long he is floating in that weird space between consciousness and unconsciousness, the drugs they keep giving keeping him knocked out. 

From what he has seen in those rare moments of in-between-shots clarity, he is in an impeccably clean, white room, that looks like their medical but also not. He is bound by his wrists, ankles, around his torso and neck (the last one, in particular, triggering his PTSD in ways he never experienced before).

It could’ve been weeks or minutes or days when the doors open, and two people in weird costumes enter, dragging a limp body between them. 

A lady’s face shows up in his field of vision, the face who injects the drugs into his system. He wants to bash the face in. 

“Do you know this boy?” she inquires of the seemingly unconscious person. When they don’t respond, one of the guards shakes them roughly and they cough, lifting up their head. The movement seems incredibly difficult for them. 

If Murphy could talk, he would’ve definitely given himself away by crying out, “Monty!”

To Monty’s credit, his eyes widen for just a fraction of a moment before the hollowness is back in them. He shakes his head. 

“Look harder.”

After a moment, Monty shakes his head again. 

“He was wearing very similar clothes to the ones you wore when you arrived here. He doesn’t seem to speak any Trigedasleng. He is about your age.”

Monty just stares blankly ahead of himself, gaze empty. “When Grounders kill us, they take our clothes,” he offers, voice scratchy. 

“Think about it, Monty. If he is one of you, then we can use him. We can use him and leave you be, never have to experiment on you again.” The lady’s voice is supposed to sound soothing, but it’s fake; it sounds like a blade wrapped in satin. 

_Experiment?_

“Go float yourself.”

The doctor condescending face disappears from above Murphy, then is back a second later with a very scary looking torture device in her hands. 

“Then we’ll just have to find out for ourselves,” she says, a twisted, malicious joy in her voice. Murphy knows this whole act is just to fuck with him and Monty, they probably already know he is one of the hundred, and he hates the Mountain Men with passion already. 

The Grounders are cruel, but at least they don’t play mind games. 

Monty begins shouting when the device comes to life, buzzing, and Murphy finally takes a good look at him. He is pale, so pale, covered in bruises. Barely standing. _What are they doing to you?_

He finds out a moment later and doesn’t like it one bit.

Again, he screams. 

But he knows no help is coming.

* * *

He comes to in a cage. 

Murphy’s heart begins beating erratically and his first instinct is to kick at the sage door, try to pry it off, pick the lock, scream for help - _not a cage again, not a cage again, get out of the cage._

But he finds out very soon that he can’t really move. 

The restraints are gone, but whatever the bastards did to him has him rendered useless and limp. 

“Murphy!” 

Murphy peers tiredly in the direction of the voice, that one move draining him of all his strength. He finds Monty in the cage next to his, frantic hands clutching the bars. 

“Hey, Murphy, talk to me. Can you talk?”

“What the fuck is this place?” Murphy whispers before passing out again. 

* * *

Monty’s constant fretting over Harper is both endearing and infuriating. 

With a massive headache pounding in his temples, Murphy settles on infuriating. 

“Hey, Harper,” he calls out, and Monty stops his continuous stream of chatter to glare at Murphy. He ignores him and rather focuses on the lethargic girl. She is lying in two cages over, barely showing any signs of life. Monty has tried everything to get her to talk, but nothing has worked so far. 

“Monroe is alive.”

After a dead beat of silence, Harper drags herself upwards, fingers clutching the bars, huge eyes trained on Murphy.

“How is she?” she croaks. 

“Alive,” Murphy repeats and gets a scalding look from Monty in return. “Alive and well,” he hurries to add. “Though Raven is pretty pissed at her right now, well both of us I assume, but I wouldn’t worry about her.”

“Why?” Harper’s voice sounds as tired as Murphy feels. 

“She made a huge scene in the mess hall.” Murphy rubs at his neck sheepishly. “Because of me. It was actually kind of sweet.” 

“That sounds like her,” Harper laughs. Monty looks elated at the sound and directs his bewildered gaze on Murphy. 

“Who are you, and what did you do with Murphy?” he whispers. 

“Fuck off,” Murphy replies.

* * *

“Hey, tell me about your life on the Ark.” 

Murphy drags a hand up to cover his face. The room is quiet, ever since they took Harper again, aside from Monty’s chatty attempts at keeping him awake. 

“I stole shit,” croaks, tired. So tired. Murphy lets his eyes close. They took his bone marrow two times already, and he heard them discuss that three or four times is the end. He hopes the third one kills him. 

“Don’t fall asleep!” Monty yells, voice strained. “C’mon, tell me what you stole that got you into the Skybox.”

“Your concern is flattering.” The corners of Murphy’s lips twitch upwards in a sad attempt at a smile. “But we’re on this program that’s called _We hate Murphy_ back at the camp, so. Save yourself the trouble.” 

“Then tell me about the camp,” Monty requests. He seems to be as stubborn as Monroe. “I haven’t been there. How does it look like now the Ark is down?”

Murphy pries his eyes open. “You’re fucking annoying.”

“I have been told that before,” Monty grimaces, something between a smile and a smirk. “C’mon, I’m waiting.”

Murphy drags himself up, leaning against the back of the cage for support. 

“The Princess’s mother is the Chancellor now, but it’s Princess who calls the shots. We have this alliance thing with the Grounders-” Murphy swallows, because speaking is difficult, and speaking about _that_ is difficult as well. 

Monty rattles his cage to keep him awake. 

“And Jaha has gone nuts…”

  
  


* * *

“We have enough cages only for the 47, doctor. Should we build another one for this kid?” 

They took Monty some time ago. Murphy screamed at them to take him, that Murphy is stronger, look at him, Monty can’t take anymore - but they took him, and Murphy is alone in the room, alone and cold and so tired. 

He pretends to be asleep, but his muscles tense when his cage door opens. 

“No. He can’t take any more marrows treatments. But shove him in with the others, he still has enough blood to be usable.” 

They knock him out with the drug again, so he doesn’t even get to enjoy the fleeting freedom of transport between one cage to another. 

* * *

“ _Shof op!”_

Murphy jerks awake, throat screamed raw again from his sleep. Blinking his eyes open, he notices his surroundings have changed, and he scrambles to get up so he can get a look around. The room is lit in dim, blue light, and cages upon cages stretch before Murphy's eyes. He lets out a yelp.

“Shof op!” growls the voice again and Murphy freezes. He picked up some Trigedasleng when captured. _Shut up_. He thinks bitterly about how glad he was to have his own room back at the camp, his screaming never waking up other people. 

Murphy turns his head up; a female Grounder is scowling down at him from the cage above his. 

“ _Fiya_ ,” he manages to get out, hoping he remembers enough and it means what he thinks it does and is not insulting her somehow. “ _Fiya. Beja?_ ”

He must look really miserable because her voice and face soften a little. “ _Chilla_ ,” she says, and that he understands, but how could he be calm at this moment? Then however follows a stream of rapid Trigedasleng that he can’t comprehend. He thinks he hears _strong_ , but can’t be sure. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” 

She stops dead in her tracks. “Skyperson?” she asks in English, narrowing her eyes. 

Murphy nods. She spits at his face. 

* * *

He thinks about Bellamy a lot. 

How he’ll never see him again. Or get a chance to rile him up so much he is fuming, and furious and his gaze melting Murphy into the ground. Get a chance to feel his calloused fingers on his skin. 

Bellamy will never say, scream, shout his name again. Never give him one of those stupid sunny huge grins of his and neither the small, private smiles that escape his lips without him meaning to. 

He’ll never get a chance to make things okay with Bellamy. Just now, when he knows he is going to die here in this little nook of hell, Murphy realizes that that is something he would like to do, or at least try to. Maybe not get to where they once were, but perhaps letting Bellamy explain as he pleaded with him to do would be a good start. 

However, everything in his life comes too fucking late. 

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in his throat until it spills over. He is laughing until his stomach hurts until it changes into sobs, body-wracking sobs that leave him feeling gouged out. 

His breakdown drowns in the sea of sounds of misery around him. 

  
  


* * *

Moans, weeping and the occasional screams fill the room. Murphy curls into a ball and tries to block it out, but it’s impossible. 

There are so many of them. 

How long have been the Mountain Men doing this? Are they doing this to all of the 47 right now?

Clarke said they were bleeding them, but it seemed so vague then, distant. Now as he takes in the bodies hanging up upside down, their blood flowing in tubes out their body, Murphy thinks no one can imagine this monstrosity if they don’t see it with their own eyes. 

All of this, it is designed so cruelly distantly, with maximal efficiency in mind, and no regard for the victims. It seems the Mountain Men don’t think of their prisoners as people anymore, just blood vessels. 

“What’s your name?” he asks the Grounder above him because he is going insane. He understands now how much Monty did for him by keeping him awake and talking, keeping the nightmares at bay. 

She doesn’t respond, even though he knows she can hear him. Murphy mulls it over in his head a few times before hesitantly adding, “ _Chon yu bilaik_?”

That has her bending down to take a closer look at him, baring her teeth in a feral snarl. “How do you know our language?”

Murphy chuckles humourlessly. “I picked up bits and pieces when your people tortured me.” 

“I can see that,” she sneers, glancing over his scarred torso. Her eyes bore into him and Murphy can swear he feels the scars hurt. “Trikru technique.” 

Suddenly he doesn’t feel up to chatting with her. 

He bows his head so she can’t see his face, fingers gripping the bars underneath him to steady himself. Bile rises up in his throat. _Trikru technique._ His scars are a very sensitive topic for him, best kept hidden and private, but the Mountain Men shred him of that last piece of dignity, privacy, alongside his clothes. Now the physical reminder of his failure is gnawing at his psyche; the ribbed, stark white lines, red starbursts, and mingled, burned skin bringing him back to the Grounder camp where he lost everything. 

“You’re strong.” She says it as though it physically pains her to force the words out, a reluctant sort of awe in her voice. “Not many of our own survive it.”

To have tortured enough of your own people to have such a statistic is worrying, however, Murphy focuses on the first part of the statement. Chuckling darkly, he gestures at his marred bloody drained of blood. 

“Do I look strong to you?”

“There are different kinds of strong, Skyperson. ”

“John,” he blurts out. “My name is John.” He is not sure why he does it. He doesn’t use his first name anymore. Or rather - no one else uses it. There were always too many Johns around, going by surnames was just made things easier. 

Either way, no one calls him John anymore; looking back, he is not even sure half the delinquents, or any at all, know his first name. For some reason, however, he wants this Grounder (who would kill him at first sight were they meet in the open, he is sure) to know it.

He wants someone to know Murphy’s name is John.

Maybe she can sense his conflicted feelings, maybe she sees him tensing up, maybe none of it. However, he feels her fingers brush his shoulder through the space between their shared bars. 

“There are different kinds of strong, Jon kom Skaikru.” 

* * *

Murphy wakes up from his slumber to the sound of a cage rattling and spit hitting skin. 

“Where do you Skypeople keep coming from?” he hears his cage-mate snarl, but Murphy is too exhausted for his brain to process the words, so he doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. 

“What do you mean? Have you seen any other… Skypeople here?” The voice is familiar, husky, and achingly painful for Murphy to hear. He is sure his delirious, dying mind is playing tricks at him at this point. Or maybe showing him mercy. Who knows.

“There is John.”

“John?” A pause. Murphy refuses to open his eyes, to rid himself of the hallucinated voice he so longs to hear. Then a sharp inhale and the cage rattles as something smashes into it. 

“Oh my god, _Murphy_? I fucking knew you didn’t leave with Jaha! Everyone said so, but I never believed it! … Murphy?”

Murphy squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes to hold onto it for a few more moments, pretend it’s real and he is not crazy. 

“What’s wrong with him?” the voice almost whines, a pleading tone etched between the words. 

The Grounder above him laughs harshly. “What do you think? The same as the rest of us.” She kicks at the top of Murphy’s cage, but he is too scared to move. “Look, dying in your sleep is plenty merciful considering-”

“He is _not dead_!” The fury chills Murphy down to the bone and makes the Grounder shut up. 

Soft, whispered words soon fill the void the thunderous roar left. “I know you can’t hear me, Murph, but it’s gonna be alright, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna get everyone out of here. And when I do, we will all go back to the camp, and I’m not gonna let you leave my fucking sight, are we clear?” Bellamy chokes on a sob. “I’m gonna get you out of here.” 

Murphy is lulled to sleep by the soft-spoken, wonderful prayers his tortured mind conjured. 

* * *

When he wakes up next, Bellamy is not there. It was an illusion after all, but still, it hurts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigedasleng translations:  
> Shof op! Shut up!  
> Beja - Please  
> Fiya - Sorry  
> Chilla - Stay calm  
> Chon yu bilaik? - Who are you?  
> Murphy knows very basic Trigedasleng :)
> 
> So, what do you think? Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. it's been forever since I came up for air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for the feedback on this fic so far, you're all so kind! I absolutely enjoy writing this fic and I'm so glad you enjoy reading it. But also like this thing??? is getting so long??? It was supposed to be a long one-shot, and here we are. I see a lot more chapters coming in the future. 
> 
> Anyway, here we enter directly post season 2-territory, which is basically canon divergence. I'm working with things that we learn and events from later on in the 3 season but in my own way :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! <3

“Are you Murphy?” 

Murphy peeks through the hair in his face at the anxious, frizzy-haired girl hovering in front of his cage. She seems restless, shifting her weight from one foot to another, glancing over to the door every few seconds. 

“I don’t speak with Mountain Men.” 

“I’m Maya.” She clears her throat. “Jasper’s friend?” 

Murphy stares at her blankly. 

“And Bellamy’s. I’m Bellamy’s friend.”

At that Murphy perks up, plastering his upper half to the front bars of his cage, heart beating harder than it has in days. How could she know his name? How could Bellamy know this girl? He couldn’t, unless…

Unless he was here. 

“How?” Murphy asks, not making any sense. ( _How_ did Bellamy get here? Did they catch him? Did they drain him of his blood already? _Where_ is he?) Maya shoots him a concerned look. 

“Bellamy sent me to tell you to hold on. Freeing you all won’t take much longer, I promise.” 

Murphy nods numbly. She worries her lip between her teeth. 

“I have to go. I’m really sorry.” 

Before she can disappear though, Murphy sneaks a few fingers through the bars to hold her back. “Maya!” She flinches away from him at the sound but listens. “Can you tell him that if we survive,” he swallows, “that I’m gonna let him explain?”

She can’t understand that but nods solemnly as if he is not babbling nonsense to her. 

“I will."

* * *

Maya never shows up again and before Murphy knows it, they’re being freed. 

It feels like a lucid dream when his cage door opens, letting him out. The first step into freedom lands Murphy on his ass, however, as his legs are not strong enough to carry him. They bend like jelly underneath him and he sprawls on the floor gracelessly, quickly crawling out of the way to not get trampled by the mass of Grounders exiting their cages, some crying, some shouting victoriously, some as shell-shocked as Murphy and unable to speak. 

Murphy leans against the cage behind him, too weak to attempt standing up again. As the room begins to empty out, no one sparing a second glance to the boy on the floor, a dread starts spreading through Murphy’s chest. Where is Bellamy? He didn’t lie about getting them out of there, so where is he now?

A hand touches his shoulder and Murphy looks up to see his cage-mate. “I don’t know your name,” he blurts out, because he is likely to part ways with her shortly and never see her again, and he wants a name to remember the face by. 

“Echo,” she answers after a moment of hesitation, proceeding to lift him up surprisingly easily, slinging his arm around her shoulder, throwing a bright orange blanket over them both. 

“Now let’s get you home, John.”

* * *

Getting home, turns out, is not as easy as Echo made it seem.

For one, the bound-to-fail alliance failed, shockingly. The Grounders betrayed them, who could’ve said so? _Murphy_ , that’s who. 

So when Murphy and Echo finally make it out of the tunnels, with her dragging his nearly unresponsive body, they arrive just in time to witness an intense Clarke-Lexa staredown. 

It’s the first time Murphy sees Lexa, but he takes one look at her and it’s obvious she is the Commander. The black around her eyes makes her look like death herself, Murphy thinks illogically. Or maybe not illogically - she just condemned a lot of people to death. 

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Lexa whispers, and Echo tenses next to him, catching on far sooner than Murphy’s muddy brain. She covers his face and his whole frame in the blanket, concealing him from all the eyes around them. Murphy is too exhausted to protest, and they pass Clarke and the others unnoticed. 

“My friends,” he whispers.

“It’s too dangerous,” she shushes him, and he is too weak to fight her. 

* * *

Murphy wakes up to a green canopy above him. 

_Is hell green?_ he wonders. 

“Good morning,” a rough voice yawns. 

Murphy sits up, feeling much better than the night before. A Grounder jacket slides down his stomach, apparently being his cover for the night. His eyes immediately fall on Echo, clad in Grounder gear, munching on some strange looking fruit. A makeshift fire pit is set up between them, now only smoldering. 

After days of imprisonment in a cramped space, Murphy feels almost agoraphobic in the vast, empty forest. The yards and yards of green stretching in front of him soothe his mind though and almost remind him of that feeling of falling in love with Earth the first time he saw it. 

“What are we doing here?” Murphy croaks, clutching the jacket covering his legs. He freezes momentarily - what if this is similar to what happened to Clarke? Anya helping her escape only to turn on her and make her her prisoner the next moment. 

“It wasn’t safe for either of us at the Trikru village,” Echo explains though, tossing the remainder of the fruit she was eating over her shoulder. “I’m from Azgeda, you’re of the Skypeople, right now they’re not very keen on either of us. Since your pathetic alliance is over, Trikru wouldn’t hesitate to get back at Skaikru. So I stole their medicine, took you, and now we’re here.” 

Echo fishes for something in her pockets, then triumphantly holds it up, making it shimmer in the sunlight. She tosses him a small vial. “Drink that, you’ll feel better.”

Murphy has probably finally gone insane because he does. “Thank you,” he whispers, looking down. Despite feeling better, Murphy is still suffering from the consequences of the severe blood loss he experienced, and he can’t imagine Echo being much better. And still, she got both herself and him out of the Grounder camp unnoticed and trudged through the forest with his unconscious ass thrown over her shoulder. Murphy has severe trust issues and respects no one and nothing, but he finds himself inclined to give both to Echo. She went through so much trouble for _Murphy_. 

Maybe there are some good people on Earth. 

“Why are you helping me though?” 

Echo lies on her back and spends a long time just looking up at the sky. “Once, I had someone that would be devastated if I didn’t come home.” She turns her head to stare at him, eyes boring right into his soul. “I don’t anymore. But you do. So I’m gonna get you home to your freckled boy.” 

Murphy hides his embarrassment in the jacket. “You’re weird,” he mumbles through the fabric. “A Grounder with compassion. Have we Skypeople infected you with our soft genes?” 

“Says a Skyperson with Grounder scars,” she fires right back at him. “Maybe the rest is soft, but not you.” 

“Whatever. Sap.”

“I don’t know that word.”

Murphy tosses the empty vial back at her. “You have a lot to learn, lowly Grounder.”

* * *

Both of them are too weak to attempt a journey longer than one to the nearest tree, so they take turns and sleep throughout the day and night. 

Murphy takes the first shift, leans his back against a tree, and enjoys the bark scratching at his back, the soil underneath him, bugs buzzing, hell, even the chilling cold. He thought he was never going to leave that cage, and these little things make him so happy it makes him feel foolish. 

But he just survived certain death once again - he is allowed to be a little foolish. 

The forest is quiet save for Echo’s snoring, which reminds Murphy of Bellamy (and boy, can that guy _snore_ ). He never showed up to free him as he promised - last Murphy heard from him via Maya, and that could’ve been a couple of days ago; he is not sure how long he was unconscious. 

The alliance is dead. Murphy has no way of knowing how the fight over Mount Weather turned out, or maybe - his stomach knots at the thought - the battle is still raging on, his friends dying as he is sitting here in the grass marveling at fucking butterflies. 

The voices in his head he can never quite make shut up are screaming at him. _Coward. You should’ve stayed there, should’ve helped. If they die in that fucking mountain, it’s on you_. But what could he do? Drained of blood, starved, and immobile after a week cramped in a cage. 

Murphy balls his shaking hands into fists, throat clogging. He could be coming back to an empty camp. Or… another thought strikes him. Would they even take him back? When he left, they were ready to get rid of him the first chance they got. 

He refuses to believe it, though. To keep sane, he chooses to believe his people survived and when he gets back, they’ll be there (and hopefully not throw him out).

* * *

“Why is Lexa pissed at your people?” Murphy asks as they trek through the woods.

“ _Heda_ ,” Echo corrects him darkly, scowling at him, “is not _pissed_ at Azgeda. Our people never get on well, regardless of us being in the coalition or not.” 

“How is it like in Azgeda?” Murphy needles, because they’ve been traveling for so long and Echo has hardly said a word to him since the first night. It would have him worried, afraid she is going to turn on him, if she didn’t wait for him every time he was too out of breath to continue; rushed to get him up when he fell; and well, still hasn’t killed him in his sleep. 

She is the only chance he’s got. She gathers their food and finds them shelter. She knows how to get to Tondc - apparently able to orient in the forest surrounding them (don’t ask him how; for Murphy a tree is a tree and he would be wandering in circles forever) - from where Murphy can find his way to the camp. 

The silence forces him to think, and thinking brings out ugly memories, so he spends his time trying to get her to warm up to him.

Echo scoffs. “Cold.”

“... And?”

“Quiet.” She sends a pointed look over her shoulder. 

“Hey, now you’re just being rude,” Murphy pouts, but Echo just grumbles something under her breath - definitely _not_ something flattering - about him.

“I don’t believe a Grounder village could be quiet,” Murphy pushes after a beat of silence. 

She finally snaps. “Azgeda is not a village!”

“Then what is it?” 

“You talk too much for your own good, John.” She sounds so exasperated, Murphy has to laugh. 

“Well, you’re so silent, I have to talk for two after all.”

* * *

“ _Ai laik Jon kom Skaikru en ai gaf gouthru klir._ Say it again.” 

Murphy repeats it after her for what feels like the millionth time, rolling his eyes. Echo demanded he learn the phrase if they got separated. “Won’t the Grounders kill me if they know I’m a Skyperson though? Wouldn’t it be better to leave that part out?”

“Do you think you can pretend to be one of us for more than 2 minutes?”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Tondc is not there. 

It’s just gone.

Instead, there is a crater in the ground, massive and still smoldering and telling a story of violence, of unimaginable loss. 

What the hell _happened_ here?

Murphy slowly rises up on his hands from where they are lying behind a fallen tree trunk on the hill overlooking what once was Tondc, bile rising up in his throat. He almost screeches when Echo dunks his head down, keeping it pressed into the ground with a firm grip on his neck. “You want an ax in your face?” she hisses. 

He stills. “Sorry,” he mumbles into the dirt. 

However, the hand stays there. “Is this your people’s repayment for the alliance not working out?” she asks very slowly, pronouncing each word clearly and with care. Her voice sends chills down Murphy’s spine. 

_Not working out, or the Grounders betraying us?_ He thinks bitterly but is too afraid to say it out loud. (Well, that’s a first.)

“No!” he coughs out. She is digging her fingers into his neck, pushing his face down, down, further into the mud until he can hardly breathe and he has dirt in his mouth. “Echo, that wasn’t us.”

She doesn’t let go. 

Murphy panics. His mind is reeling, he can’t breathe, and why does this keep happening to him? He writhes underneath Echo, simultaneously hearing himself plead Bellamy to not kick the crate out from under him in his head. 

“Do you think if we had these kinds of weapons, we would need your help to take down the Mountain Men?” Murphy wheezes from the last of his strength. 

Just when he is about to pass out, Echo pulls away. 

Murphy rolls over, coughing out the parts of the ground he swallowed, pulling in long, rattling breaths. Echo is standing a few feet away from him, contemplating him with a blank face. 

Murphy wants to be angry at her, but it was logical for her to come to that conclusion, and also he is just used to being unfairly accused and attacked at this point. 

“Next time,” he croaks, trying a shaky smile, “do you think you could ask first, then choke later?” 

The impassive mask finally breaks and she winces, hanging her head. “I’m sorry, John.” She plops down next to him, close enough, but giving him space to run off if he wanted to. He doesn’t. 

“I’m not a good person,” she whispers. 

“Echo-”

“I’m not.” She shakes her head resolutely. “I know that. You know nothing about me, or the things I’ve done.” She stares ahead of herself. “I’ve had a lot of time to think in the cage, you know. I thought helping you get home might redeem me a little bit. Start something new. But it looks like my training runs too deep for me to ever be good.” Her smile turns bitter. 

There is so much to unpack in that sentence, but Murphy pushes it aside for now. He reaches out slowly, makes sure Echo can see the touch coming before he places his hand on her knee. 

“Y’know, you don’t know shit about me too.” Murphy sighs, trying to catch her eye. “I’m not a good person either. I have done my fair share of bad, bad things as well. But those - they don’t define us.”

“You say you’re a bad person, yet you’re the only one in the Harvest Chamber who came back for the boy on the floor. I can never see an evil person doing that.”

Echo sniffles, rubbing at her runny nose. “You should hate me.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Look, if I stopped talking to everyone who tried to kill me, I would have exactly zero people in my life. Every relationship of mine is fucked up. Hell, I have a crush on a guy who hanged me. Stuff happens.”

Echo studies him for quite some time. “What’s a crush?” she asks in the end. 

Murphy hides his face in his hands. “Oh my god, I’m _so_ not having this conversation with you!”

“What conversation?”

“You know, you’re right. I do hate you.” 

Echo throws a pine cone at him. 

* * *

It takes them four days in total (three if not counting the day the slept through) to get near Camp Jaha (which by the way, the name has to go; Jaha is the reason he got in the mess in the first place, dammit; he hopes something in the desert ate him). Echo was adamant about avoiding all Grounder villages or paths they frequent, so it was a lot of climbing up and down steep hills. Murphy has recovered partially, thanks to the healing potions, whatever was in them, but not nearly enough to be hopping around the forest like he was 16 again. 

They stop in the trees surrounding the camp. Crouched down low, hiding behind a tree stump, Murphy keeps peeking out for any sign of life. His heart is hammering in his chest. What if they didn’t survive, what if they’re still inside that mountain-

Something shimmers by the fence, what if it’s a Grounder sword, what if they came to raid the empty camp- 

_Calm down_ , Murphy tells himself firmly in his head. 

Gun. It’s a gun. 

He slumps against the tree, a weight he wasn’t even aware of falling off his shoulders. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until shapes are flying in front of his eyes, suppressing a disbelieving laugh. 

He is sure after the back-stab from the Grounders the guards at the gate will be shooting at any sight of warpaint. He chucks the Grounder clothes Echo stole for him, leaving only a shirt and black pants. Hopefully, he will look non-threatening enough. 

When he is done, they both hover awkwardly. Murphy’s throat tightens; he owes this woman his life. Not just this woman; his friend. 

“I don’t know how Skypeople say goodbye,” she admits after a while, and Murphy squeezes her in a hug with a wet laugh. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into her shoulder. She is rigid but claps him on his back awkwardly. “Get home safe.”

She draws away with a small smile. “I think we will see each other again, John. _Oso gonplei nou ste odon_ *.”

  
  


Murphy approaches the gates with his hands in the air, shouting as soon as he is within hearing distance, “Don’t shoot! I’m John Murphy. I’m one of you.” 

He is getting tired by the time he reaches the fence, still far too weak to be able to walk by himself for so long, or without a stick to lean on. But he keeps his hands high up where they can see them, even when he is staggering heavily now. 

Someone shouts for them to open the gates, and suddenly Murphy is back. Just like that. They open the gates, he comes through, and he is back, safe, and everyone else is back and safe. 

It just doesn’t feel real. 

There are so many people, so many faces. So many guns. His vision swims. He is shivering in his threadbare clothing. Everyone is shouting over everyone, so in conclusion, Murphy can’t hear anything, only a buzz of thrilled voices. 

His legs give out under him just one of the guards fights his way forward (“Excuse me. Out of the way! Are you fucking deaf?”), steading him with a hand on his back when he falls on his knees. Murphy looks up tiredly, his eyes adjusting for a second; the sun is shining directly above them. 

He cracks a tired smile. “Nice to see your ugly mug again, Miller.”

Miller laughs at him in disbelief. “Murphy, you bastard. You’re really impossible to kill, huh?” 

“Like a cockroach,” Murphy agrees, remembering how some of the hundred used to mock him when he came crawling back to the camp. _Murphy the Cockroach - disgusting and hard to kill_. 

“Where the hell were you?” Miller asks incredulously. 

“How about I tell you when I’m not knee-deep in mud?” 

Miller cackles. “Alright. Oh boy. Up you go.” He tugs him upwards and slings his arm around his shoulder, his other hand gripping Murphy’s waist. “Can you walk? Are you hurt?”

“No, but walking’s kinda difficult.” Murphy flaps his free arm. “Still tryin’ to grow back the bone marrow, y’know.”

“I don’t think it works that way, Murphy.”

“Whatever.” 

Miller sighs and begins shoving them through the crowd. “C’mon, nothing to see here!” he yells. “Don’t you all have jobs or something?” The crowd disperses with some snickering and whispers traveling around; half the camp is going to be talking about his dramatic entrance by tonight, he is sure. 

“What’s the rush?” Murphy pants when Miller picks up a fast pace, practically dragging Murphy next to him. He would really like to lie down for a moment, or like, eat something that isn’t a root. “Can’t we sit down for a moment? It took a lot of walking to get here, y’know.”

“Sorry,” Miller mumbles, evidently uncomfortable. “But we need to get you to the memorial. I hope they’re not on your name yet. That would be very awkward.”

“ _What_?” Murphy huffs. 

“They’re having a funeral for the dead without the bodies to bury,” Miller explains, and Murphy feels like he might be sick. “They’re having a funeral for you, Murphy.”

* * *

Of all the weird things that have happened to Murphy since he came down to Earth, attending his own funeral is definitely in the top three. 

“ _Why_ did you all assume I was dead?” 

He is getting a lot of stares. Like, a lot. It’s as if they’re seeing a ghost - _and they are_ , he reminds himself incredulously. He notices a bunch of the hundred he was never really close to halting mid-sentence, eyes bulging out of their head at the sight of him. 

Honestly, he is just baffled. 

“Well, Bellamy said you were in the Harvest Chamber, but when we got there, everyone was gone. Lexa agreed to sweep the villages for you, but every scout came back empty-handed. It was a pretty logical conclusion,” Miller explains. He has a beard now. It suits him. Murphy wishes he could grow a beard too. 

“It was _not_.” He is just pissed they wrote him off as dead, when he was out there, putting all of his remaining energy on getting back to this bloody camp. “So. Did anyone cry?”

Miller rolls his eyes. “I see you’re still the same asshole as always.”

“Aww. You’re just embarrassed because you missed me, and you’re glad I’m okay.” 

“Me? Miss you? Never.” Miller flicks off a staring delinquent. “I’m just glad Bellamy’s whining is gonna stop.”

“His what now?”

He sees Miller smirk in the corner of his eye and feels red rose to his cheeks. 

“You just wait. Now that you’re alive, and it’s all not so dramatic and whatnot, I’m gonna make so much fun of him. It was so pathetic.” He shoots him a look. “Well, it’s pathetic now, that you’re, y’know, not dead.”

They are moving pretty slow, with Murphy significantly slowing down Miller’s fast pace. Murphy is anxious despite his cocky outward attitude; being led to his own funeral just feels _weird_ . And what does Miller mean anyway, about Bellamy’s whining? As in whining about him? What does it _mean_ though?

He is probably feeling guilty he almost offered up Murphy to the Grounders on a silver platter, and then Murphy got captured, tortured, _and_ (presumably) killed. Someone with a conscience like Bellamy must be drowning in guilt. 

“There.” Miller points and Murphy follows his finger to see a small group of people huddled together, under the last leftover green trees in the far end of the camp.

“... Fox was always cheery, so excited about everything…” The wind carries Harper’s voice to them, thick with emotions. Murphy stops dead in his tracks at hearing it, emotion overcoming him as well. His whole journey, he was mentally preparing himself for coming back to an empty camp with only ghosts around. When he allowed himself to imagine a scenario where some people lived, he was never counting on so much of them surviving, and knowing Miller and Harper were alive made the leftover dread shrink to a very little ball in his stomach. 

“C’mon.” Miller tugs on his arm, setting them in motion once again. “You can rest when they know you’re not dead.”

“Thank you, Harper.” Murphy can make out the voice of Abby Griffin in the sea of other sounds. “That was beautiful.” After a dutiful moment of silence, she continues. 

“Who is going to speak for John Murphy?”

After a beat of silence, Monroe takes a step forward, letting go of Harper’s hand she was holding. Murphy is secretly happy at that, even though he knows his presumed death is sad for her, and he is about to give her a heart attack. 

The next moment though, she steps back haltingly; Murphy frowns, but then he sees why. 

Bellamy steps forward. 

He freezes, unable to move. He slumps against Miller entirely, Miller is cursing as he didn’t expect it and they end in a heap on the ground. “Fuck, Murphy, you should’ve said your injuries were this serious,” he frets over him, but seeing Bellamy drowns everything else out.

He is too far away to make out any details, but he would know those black curls anywhere. 

“Hey, Murphy, talk to me! Fuck, what do I do?” Murphy focuses on Miller again, who is waving a hand in front of Murphy’s face. “I swear, if you die right now I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

“I’m fine. Help me up, asshole,” Murphy rasps. Miller blinks but complies. “You’re fine my ass,” Miller murmurs, but Murphy sends him a scalding look. “Just get me over there, complain later.” 

Miller looks down at him and smirks. “Sure thing, boss.” Then he bends down and heaves Murphy over his shoulders like a dead animal. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Murphy sputters, ears turning red. Miller’s stupid bony shoulder is digging into his stomach. 

“You can’t walk,” Miller answers, enjoying this way too much. “Get there first, complain later.”

Murphy lets it go though because he is still shell-shocked. Bellamy Blake is speaking at his funeral. _I’m gonna get you home to your freckled boy_ , Echo’s voice sounds in his head and Murphy feels warmth spread through his body. 

They are close enough to hear the voices clearly now. 

“Murphy,” Bellamy’s voice is strained to be normal but is downright sorrowful, “wasn’t a good guy. None of us are good guys. He made mistakes, but he worked even harder to fix them, even though all of us made it impossible for him to succeed.”

“He was a fighter,” Bellamy laughs wetly and Murphy can’t take it anymore. 

“Stop!” Miller shouts. 

Everyone turns to them. A series of loud gasps, screams, and a thud follow seconds later. 

“Miller,” he hears Monroe’s wavering voice over it all though. “Is that Murphy’s corpse?”

Everything stops for a moment. 

“ _What the fuck?”_ Murphy yells, trying to shimmy his way from Miller’s grasp. “I’m alive, you idiots! Miller, put me down, you absolute moron!” 

Only the howling of the wind can be heard in the thick silence that follows after Miller sets Murphy carefully down, still keeping a hand on his back for stability, just in case. Once Murphy turns to face the group, everyone takes a collective step back, which stings just a little. 

Aside from Harper, who is lying unconscious on the ground. The thud, it turns out, was her fainting. 

“So… yeah,” Murphy murmurs, hand fidgeting with the hem of the too large Grounder shirt. “Not dead. See?” He wiggles his arms to demonstrate. “Uhm. This is awkward. Sorry, I guess?” But it’s not his fault they proclaimed him dead. He thought _them_ dead. 

Murphy turns to Miller for help, because this is just getting ridiculous. 

“You _asshole!”_ His breath is knocked out from his lungs when Monroe throws herself at him, with so much force they nearly topple over, squeezing so hard Murphy’s ribs crack. She is grinning into his shoulder. Murphy releases the breath he was holding for so long, letting his tired body lean against her muscular one. 

“Hey, it took me a lot of effort to get him here, don’t squash him!” Miller interrupts angrily. 

“Shut up, Miller!” they growl in unison. 

“Sorry to have scared you,” Murphy says with a sheepish smile when she pulls away. 

“You should be,” Monroe replies darkly and punches him in the shoulder, earning a pained yelp from Murphy. “You do this again and I cut off your balls, are we clear?” 

“So clear.” Murphy nods frantically. Monroe squeezes his shoulder one last time before jogging up to her girlfriend who was beginning to move, checking if she hadn’t hit her head too hard. 

After Monroe broke the silence, the others follow her lead, approaching Murphy. Monty, Harper, Abby, Jackson, Miller, all of them look happy to see him alive; something genuinely surprising to Murphy. People never liked him very well, never cared whether he died or lived. He assumed his death would be sad for Monroe, as her death would be for him, and bring guilt to Bellamy and Clarke (who was suspiciously absent, but Murphy let it slide, too preoccupied), but that was about it. 

This is very new to him, but he is certainly not complaining. 

In the blur of faces, smiles, and voices, Murphy seeks out Bellamy, because he always does. In any crowd, he always finds him. He looks wrecked, hair tousled, pale and eyes bloodshot, dark circles under them. Utter shock spills over his face, his jaw going slack. Bellamy shakes his head, over and over again. 

When their eyes lock, Murphy feels his lips stretching into a smile, unable to resist any longer. They all survived hell and came back. And Bellamy wanted to save him and he seemed downright grief-stricken from Murphy’s death and now they’re both here and well - if Bellamy is willing to put the past behind them, Murphy is too. 

He survived his death many times, but this is the first time when he wants to keep on living after. 

Murphy’s grin keeps growing. Bellamy eventually stops shaking his head. Then he just stares, and it’s like there are nothing and no one other than them in the world for a moment. Murphy can hear some snickering, probably coming from Miller, the dumb fuck, but he doesn’t care if anyone witnesses his face turning all soft and mushy. 

“Hi,” Murphy laughs, and Bellamy’s whole face lights up like he didn’t believe he was real before Murphy spoke up. 

“Hey,” Bellamy whispers. The people between them part like waves and suddenly Bellamy is stumbling to get to him. 

Murphy feels like his face is going to split from the grinning. He didn’t expect-

A gasp escapes him as something sharp buries itself in his neck. Murphy reaches behind his head, yanking a small dart out with some difficulties. “What the fuck?” he mumbles, tongue heavy. 

Panic shoots up his body, but his moves are already sluggish, already too slow. It must be something similar to what the Mountain Men used to capture him. 

He looks up, fear clear on his face, the dart falling from his hand as his fingers go slack. Everyone has frozen again, staring at him. He was worried they wouldn’t want him back, he was worried they died, but he hadn’t thought to worry they would deceive him like this. 

“Why?” he pleads before darkness envelops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think of this chapter? I'm actually quite nervous about it, please let me know your opinion! I thought long about how to play this and Echo helping Murphy seemed like the most logical way for him to get out of the mountain and back to the camp safe. <3


	4. clipped wings, I was a broken thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Back with another chapter for ya! Thank you for all feedback, it is very appreciated. (Seriously though, the comments are keeping me going these days :D) We're entering the realm of canon divergence, so get ready :dd This chapter involves hinted at rape, so if any of that triggers anyone, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“He’s hurt, Marcus. You have to let me treat him.”

“He could be dangerous, Abby.”

Murphy’s mind is a bit foggy as his senses slowly come back to him. However, contrary to the drug from Mount Weather, this one wears off much quicker and leaves him able to focus. He quickly assesses the situation. 

He is lying on a hard surface, possibly a table. He doesn’t feel the tell-tale weight of restraints, but he doesn’t want to move his limbs to test his theory to not let them know he is awake. He wants to listen in on as much conversation as he can to know what he is dealing with this time. 

He feels bitter resentment for them bubble up in his stomach, for robbing him of his earlier joy.

“He is a kid!” Abby’s exasperated voice thunders. “A kid! I don’t know what were you thinking-”

“A kid who killed a bunch of other kids, need I remind you of that, Abby?” Kane’s cold voice cuts her off. “Not a single one of the hundred is a child anymore.”

Abby is silent for a moment. “Your point?” Murphy can just see her in his mind folding her arms and clicking her tongue. “You have been acting very off ever since Thelonius left-”

“Left, or disappeared?”

“Oh, not this again!” Abby growls. “Thelonius left camp, Marcus, he was seen taking supplies-”

“He was _seen_ ,” Kane sneers, “with this boy. Next, he is gone. Now, he is seen traveling with a Grounder, and-”

“What?” Abby gasps. Murphy can hear fast pacing around the room. “What are you saying?”

“Kane, did you know this boy was alive?” Abby pushes when Kane stays silent. 

“One of the scouts came back to report to me that he saw John not far away from Tondc, accompanying a female Grounder-” Kane admits reluctantly.

“Oh my God!” Abby’s shouts, voice furious. “How could you? You knew this boy was alive, and you let us have a _funeral_ for him, let his friends _mourn_ him-”

“He is working for them, Abby!” Kane roars suddenly. “Isn’t it obvious? He helped them kill off Thelonius. They helped him out of the mountain. Now, he is here, to spy on us-”

“Kane, you do realize you sound insane, yes?” Abby’s voice is full of disbelief, then she lowers it. “I have treated him before. Do you know more than 60% of his body is scar tissue?” Abby takes a shaky breath. “This boy would never willingly work with the Grounders, you can trust me on that.”

Murphy feels sick, and he has to fight very hard to stay still. How could Kane think that he would work with the people who did- did- those _things_ to him? That he would spy for them? He _hated_ the alliance. Feared every time he walked through the camp that one of the Grounders who were suddenly everywhere would grab him by his hair and drag him somewhere, somewhere where no one could hear him pleading-

Moreover, fear for Echo washes over him. If they knew about her, did they follow her when they said goodbye? _I’m not a good person, John._ Did helping him get her killed in the end? 

Murphy chokes a sob down. 

“Besides, look at him. He is wearing the Grounder clothes they gave him. For all we know, the girl with him didn’t have to be a Grounder either.”

“Abby, let me just interrogate him, we can find out then-”

“No.”

“Please, be reasonable.”

“Or what? Are you going to shock lash me?” Abby’s voice is made of steel. That actually shuts Kane up. 

“I thought so. So you can shove your conspiratorial theories up your ass and leave me to treat my patient.” 

* * *

Murphy wakes up to someone holding his hand.

It’s a weird feeling. He has never really held hands with anybody, if not counting his parents leading him by his hand when they were still alive. After that, he got locked up at thirteen and there wasn’t much place for romance in the Skybox; hasty handjobs here and there, sure, but that was about it. Once on the ground, during his time with Bellamy, they did all sorts of things but never once held hands. 

He contemplates yanking his arms away, but the warmth enveloping his hand is too nice, too comforting to rob himself of it so soon. He always thought holding hands was for disgusting lovesick couples, but he finds himself liking it. 

It has been so long since someone touched him with kindness in heart, and not an intention to hurt. 

His eyes flutter open. “Bell?” he whispers, the old nickname slipping from his lips when he sees the mop of dark curls spilled next to his head. 

Bellamy jerks up, blinking groggily, before spotting Murphy is awake. He grins so wide his eyes crinkle. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he whispers back, his voice only slightly wavering at the end. His eyes are full of awe and wonder as he watches Murphy. 

Murphy blinks a couple of times, chasing away the last remnants of sleep, as the memories come back to him. 

“Kane!” he gasps, struggling to sit up. “Bellamy, he- he thinks- he wants to _interrogate_ me-”

“Easy, easy,” Bellamy stops his attempts to move with a hand on his chest. Murphy’s shirt is thin and holy and surely Bellamy must feel the rigged scars through the fabric, alongside his protruding ribs. Murphy jerks away from the touch, ashamed of his broken body (especially when confronted with Bellamy’s super hot one). Bellamy quickly drops his hand, though the flash of hurt in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Murphy, who instantly feels like an asshole. 

“Easy,” Bellamy repeats, clearing his throat. “Don’t exhaust yourself.” His face hardens. “You don’t have to worry. Abby is in a council meeting with Kane. He is just spouting nonsense. She will make sure he can’t hurt you in any way.” 

It calms his mind somewhat, but Murphy still remembers the slight manic edge to Kane’s voice, his utter conviction Murphy was a Grounder spy. He isn’t a man to let go of something like that just because someone tells him to forget it. 

“Hey, Murphy, look at me. Please.” He reluctantly catches Bellamy’s eye. There are so many emotions stirring in them it takes him by surprise. “I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.” His face is open, pleading, hopeful. 

Murphy nods because he believes him. But instead of relief or content Murphy was expecting, Bellamy’s face contorts in bitterness. 

“Because I did such a good job of that the last time, huh?” he mumbles darkly under his breath. 

“What?” Murphy asks dumbly. 

Bellamy suddenly looks at him with wide, desperate eyes. “I promised you I would get you out of that cage, and I didn’t.” He clenches his jaw, dropping his gaze. “I left you there alone to die.”

Where is this coming from? Murphy wonders with a raised eyebrow. “But I didn’t.” He tries to catch Bellamy’s eye. “I didn’t. Die, I mean. I didn’t die. Bellamy?” 

“Well, but not because of me!” Bellamy’s voice booms. He pushes away from Murphy’s bed, shaking hands balling into fists. “I don’t know how you survived, but not because of me. I failed you. I should’ve been there to help you. I promised. I could’ve killed you myself and it would have made no difference.” 

The small room is silent except for Bellamy’s laboured breathing. 

“Hey, but I’m not dead. I’m here. How could any of that be your fault?” Murphy tries to calm him down. “The Grounders took me with them, y’know, Lexa freed them with the agreement-”

“Exactly!” Bellamy growls. “I let them take you, twice!”

Murphy winces at the choice of words but chases the ugly thoughts away for now. “No, no, you see, someone helped me-”

“I need some air.”

“What?” Murphy calls after him, but Bellamy is already walking away, his whole frame shaking. “Wait, hey! You can’t just-” 

The door clicks. 

“-walk away like that,” Murphy finishes quietly to the empty room. 

He smiles an aggrieved smile at his reflection in one of the medical cabinets. “Welcome home,” he whispers. 

It’s not even five minutes before the door opens again. 

“Back so soon, Blake?” Murphy spats out because he has since decided he is definitely pissed at Bellamy for several reasons. For one, ruining a nice moment. Or assuming Murphy was so helpless and defenseless he needed big strong Bellamy to come save him (well, he needed big strong Echo to save him, but Bellamy doesn’t need to know that). 

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Murphy.” 

Murphy shoots up on the bed, not caring about the bedrest or his injuries. 

Kane is standing in the doorway, and Murphy hyper focuses on two details at that moment - the guards he can see positioned behind the closing door, and the gun slung over Kane’s shoulder. 

“You and I are going to have a little chat now, _John_.”

* * *

Murphy’s heart is in his throat as he digs his fingers into his thighs to steady himself. 

“Where is Chancellor Griffin?” he asks lamely, hating how pathetic his voice sounds. But he doesn’t like this scenario one bit - he doesn’t see a lot of outcomes for himself, and just a sliver of those are positive ones. 

“Chancellor Griffin doesn’t concern you right now,” Kane dismisses it, moving closer. Murphy pushes himself back on the bed until he is nearly falling over. 

“Right now, you will tell me everything about the day you did away with Jaha.” In his eyes, Murphy can see the same insanity brewing he saw in Jaha’s eyes all those days ago. Beyond that, they’re cold, cold, cold. There is a smirk on his face and generally, he seems so different from the man who walked unarmed into a Grounder village to bring peace. 

Murphy’s eyes flick to the door. An attempt to escape would be fruitless, he knows, but he is still itching to do more than be a sitting duck before someone arrives. 

“I didn’t _do away_ with nobody-” Murphy starts to protest but Kane just pats his belt where a knife is safely tucked away in a sheat, as in to say, _Better think over what you say if you wanna keep it that way._ “I don’t think you’re in a position to lie here, John.”

“I’m not!” Murphy growls when Kane advances on him again. 

Telling what happened might be the only way out, so Murphy launches into the story. “Jaha asked me that day to show him Wells’s grave back at the Dropship. He said that the graves were unmarked and he couldn’t tell which was his. I went with him, because I didn’t have anything better to do. When I showed it to him, a bunch of people turned up, all with stolen rations and guns. Jaha was going on and on about this promised land he would find, but I didn’t want to join them, so I left.” Murphy says it in a single breath, sucking in the air afterward.

“That is a well-prepared story,” is all Kane has to say, voice satisfied, like Murphy just confirmed all of his suspicions. “How many times did you practice it?”

“What the fuck?” Murphy feels like everyone around him is on drugs or something; and _he_ is supposed to be the crazy one. “Zero times? Because it actually happened?”

“I told you lying would get you nowhere.” 

“ _I’m not lying!”_ Where is Abby? Wasn’t she supposed to hold this lunatic off? And how long does Bellamy intend on wallowing in his self-hatred before coming back? Cold sweat trickles down his back as Kane nears him, ungracefully falling off the bed in his haste to get away. Kane tsks at him, not believing him. He doesn’t know what to say to convince him Jaha left because he thought he had a _mission_. 

In one swift motion, Kane slings the gun from his shoulder and points it at Murphy, the barrel leveled with his chest. Murphy stares right into it and can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the black hole that is about to end his life.

For a moment, Murphy imagines the funeral he attended yesterday. That is what would happen if Kane shot him right now. A grim affair, hushed voices and lowered eyes, Bellamy having a speech about him. _He’s a fighter_ , he said, and Murphy feels he has to survive this to earn that title. 

“Don’t make me do this, John.” Despite his words, Kane doesn’t look like it would bother him in the slightest to shoot him. His senses heighten as his mind goes into overdrive, his whole being is hyper-focused on the black hole of the barrel. 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He scrambles up on his legs, staggering back until his back hits the wall. His eyes roam the room frantically for a weapon. They land not far away from where he is standing, on a small table cluttered with scalpels. He could get hold of one if he lurched at it quickly enough. 

Kane’s calculating gaze never leaves him though. He would shoot him before he reached the table. 

_A fighter_. If Murphy doesn’t act, he is going to die a coward, and that is a bitter pill to swallow. 

“How long did the Grounders have you?” Kane switches tactics, voice soothing all of the sudden. What twisted game is he playing? Murphy’s head is spinning. 

“What?” _Three days_ , Murphy thinks in his head. _Three days of hell and you think I would work for them._

“What did they offer you for your freedom?” 

“Nothing!” he barks. “Nothing! They infected me with a virus and let me go to infect everyone at the Dropship!” 

Kane stops at the feet of the bed.

“You know, John, I read somewhere that torture can do… things, to the mind.” He stops for effect. “Break it, make the person do anything to save them from more pain; even make the victim fall for their captor.” 

Kane’s apathetic voice makes something in Murphy’s head snap, a dam breaking under a flood, the words bringing up shreds of memories he buried deep down. It’s suddenly getting hard to breathe. 

“What did you do for the Grounders, John?”

Murphy lurches at him when a Grounder face fills up his mind. He knocks the gun away before it can fire and the bullets hit the medical cabinets, glass raining on the ground until the floor is glistening with it like teardrops. Murphy doesn’t know what’s real anymore if it’s the Grounders in his head or Marcus Kane on the ground underneath him, but he fights nonetheless. He hears someone screaming and wonders if the Grounders are keeping other prisoners if he is not the only one being tortured. 

  
  


_Such a pretty face… Why not take him for a test drive before we’re done with him?_

  
  


There are hands touching him and Murphy flinches, he has to get away, they found him again, he is fighting against the hands but they persist, tugging at him, tearing at his flesh, at his soul. He is a fighter. He can’t give up. If he gives up now, the Grounders will leave nothing of him. 

“No!” he screams, trashes in the hold, chokes on sobs. “No, no, l-let me go! Please! _Beja! Beja!_ ” 

He hears voices, but cannot make out what they’re saying. There is a humming sound near his head that he can barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears. He continues to plead, sob, but the arms still hold him, gently, and when no attack comes Murphy feels his body go slack, focusing on the soft humming. 

Eventually, the world slowly comes into focus again. Murphy does no longer see snickering, jagged shadows in front of him, but rather the medical room in the Alpha Station, though he has no idea how he got there. “... you’re alright, you’re alright, no one will hurt you, you’re safe…” is the first thing he hears, though it’s still muffled, as though he is underwater. 

He lets his head loll back. It lands on something soft. He blinks to clear his vision of the fog. 

“Bell?” he whispers. 

Bellamy above him nods, eyes wet and a sigh so long escapes him. He bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Murphy’s head. 

“What happened?” Murphy rasps out. His throat is raw as if he had been screaming. “Where are the Grounders?” He looks down on his hands and sees them covered in blood, the thick, red fluid smeared across his knuckles, his palms. 

He feels Bellamy’s muscles tense under him. “There were no Grounders, Murphy,” he reassures him, voice very soft and fragile as if Murphy might crumble into pieces at any moment. Murphy is feeling too emotionally drained to take any offense in that. “It’s over. You’re safe.” 

Somebody crouches down next to them. They’re on the floor, Murphy realizes. Why are they on the floor?

“John -I mean, Murphy, can you hear me?” Abby Griffin asks. 

Murphy nods slowly, his head jerking up and down like a puppet’s on a string. 

“You just went through a severe panic attack, Murphy,” she explains, but the words mean nothing to him. “You need to rest. Can Bellamy here carry you to your room? Is that alright? You need to lie down in a real bed. I will bring you water and something to eat in a bit, okay?”

Murphy just nods mechanically again. 

Bellamy picks him up then, ever so carefully hooking his arms under Murphy’s knees and back. Once he is up in the air, Murphy notices a body lying on the floor, unmoving, bloodied. He hides his face in Bellamy’s chest. He doesn’t want to see what’s happening around them, or people staring at him, judging him for how weak he is. 

Bellamy murmurs something to him, but Murphy can’t bring himself to respond. He clings to Bellamy too desperately, buries his face too intimately in his chest, he knows. But Bellamy doesn’t drop him or tell him to behave himself, so he keeps doing exactly that. He remembers when Miller carried him before, and how entirely different this is. 

Murphy looks up only when Bellamy kicks a door open. 

“This isn’t my room,” Murphy protests meekly. 

“This is your new room,” Bellamy explains, setting him down on one of the bottom bunk beds carefully. “The roof in your old one collapsed in on itself. Sorry,” he grimaces, but fumbles with a drawer next to the bed. “But look, I managed to save some of your stuff.” He thrusts a bunch of things into Murphy’s face, like his knife, the leather bracelet Mbege made him, the metal figure he stole from Finn. Bellamy’s hands are shaking a little, making the objects rattle. 

Murphy nods. It’s nice. He just can’t bring himself to say anything. He is afraid if he does, he will burst into tears. He burrows himself in the furs on the bed, but still feels cold. 

“Um, Monty, Harper, and Monroe will be bunking here with you. They’re working right now, but will be here soon. Hope you don’t mind? There is not enough space to give everyone separate rooms anymore.” Murphy nods again. He dares not ask where Kane is, or if he will come for him again. 

“And, uh, I’m staying just across the hallway. If you ever wanted to come say hi… or… something.” Bellamy winces at his own words, rubs at his neck. Murphy notices for the first time how sallow his face is. How his lips tremble in the slightest. 

Someone knocks on the door softly and Bellamy gets up reluctantly. Murphy stares up at the ceiling, unmoving, as Bellamy accepts the rations and water Abby brought them. The door closes behind her with a click. 

“Can I clean your hands?” 

Murphy shrugs. Bellamy gently takes his smaller hands into his bigger ones, wetting a rag, and washing the dried blood away. When he is done, the water in the basin is pink, and Bellamy’s thumb is running over the ridged edges of the scars on his palm. 

“Say something, please,” Bellamy breathes out, eyes pleading, worried. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me again-” 

“Not you,” Murphy finally croaks. “I…” Murphy can’t fight off the tears any longer. “I’m _broken_ ,” he bites out, the words scratching, burning his throat as they go up. As soon as he says it, sobs come out, ugly sobs rattling his whole body. He feels Bellamy draw him in close and he lets him, leans against him, and cries his heart out into his chest, clutching at his shirt. 

He is crying because he is fucked-up, broken in ways no one can ever understand. They would say it would get better, easier, go away; but Murphy knows that the ugly thing inside of him will never go away; he will never be entirely free of it.

He is crying because Bellamy is so nice to him after so long. 

He is crying because he feels so pathetic. 

He is crying because Echo helped him escape and now Kane probably had her killed. 

He is crying because Mbege is dead. 

He is crying because his mother died with the words “You killed your father,” on her lips. 

He is crying because he had blood on his hands, and he is a monster. 

Bellamy just sits through it with him, stroking his hair and his back, whispering to him empty promises of how it’s going to be alright. Murphy knows it’s not, it never will. But right now, he can pretend, for Bellamy’s sake, that he is fixable. 

“Stay?” Murphy asks at the end of it all, a ray of hesitant hope peeking through the clouds. 

Bellamy bends down to untie his boots. “Wouldn't dream of leavin’.”

* * *

They lie next to each other for what feels like hours and eventually, Bellamy’s breathing evens out and he falls asleep. Murphy can’t though. He stares at the bottom of the top bunk bed, throat tight from all the weeping, too afraid of what sleep holds for him. 

Bellamy shouldn’t be this relaxed next to him. He should keep his guard up. Murphy was too scared to ask for the details, but from his own foggy scraps of memories and the pink bloody water in the basin next to the bed, he can tell he just beat up a man bloody because he triggered something in his head. 

What if it’s someone he cares about who triggers it next?

Bellamy starts snoring, and snuggles closer to him in his sleep, throwing an arm around Murphy’s waist. His skin is crawling, he knows he doesn’t deserve this, but he keeps still. He is a weak man. He has never prided himself on being particularly strong-willed, and his resolve crumbles down under the warmth seeping into his cold bones from Bellamy. 

Murphy slowly turns over, careful not to disturb his slumber. Bellamy somehow manages to look both peaceful and haunted in his sleep, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in their proximity. His hair is splayed out on Murphy’s pillow like spilled ink, and he has to fight the urge to run his finger through it. 

He still hasn’t moved an inch when the doors open and the other occupants of this room pour in. Murphy turns his head towards them and immediately regrets it upon seeing Monroe’s giant smirk and Monty and Harper’s matching mischievous smiles, the two of them giggling to themselves. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Murphy groans and drags the furs over his head, wiggling out from under Bellamy’s arm. 

“Are you sure we’re the ones you want to do that?” Monroe snickers. 

“Monroe!” Harper huffs. “Leave the crude remarks aside. Look how cute they look together!”

“You wouldn’t think of them as cute if you saw them bangin’ back at the Dropship,” Monroe mumbles. 

“ _Monroe!_ ” 

Murphy drags a hand from under the blanket to flick them off, keeping his head under there though to hide his flaming cheeks. His only hope is they haven’t woken up Bellamy yet. 

“I think they’re cute,” Monty chimes in helpfully. “But like in the way that can go from cute to violent real fuckin’ fast.”

“I hate you all,” Murphy whines. Next to him, Bellamy stirs. 

“What are you staring at?” Bellamy grumbles, voice husky and thick from sleep. It sends shivers down Murphy’s spine. 

“Nothing!” Harper squeaks, and when Murphy dares to peek up from under his cover he sees her shoving Monroe and Monty out the door. “We were just leaving, actually. Hm- Abby wants us to bring- uh, something, for Murphy,” she babbles, and then her face turns all malicious glee right before she shuts the door. “It’ll take us a _while_.”

Murphy flops back down. “They’re horrible,” he complains. They’re not really, but he wants Bellamy to focus on them and not him, on what happened. He doesn’t feel up to talking about it yet, or ever for that matter. 

“Why?” Bellamy laughs, eyes twinkling. “What did they do?” 

“Made fun of me,” Murphy pouts, opting to leave out the ‘making fun of _us_ ’ part. Now that he can think clearly, he feels so embarrassed from his previous breakdown. Sure, Bellamy calmed him down and stayed with him, but Abby probably ordered him to do that. Murphy shouldn’t get any funny ideas, no matter if their friends think they look _cute_ together or whatever. 

“Oh, how villainous of them,” Bellamy teases him and Murphy rolls over to frown at him disapprovingly. “Why are you taking their side?”

“I’m not,” Bellamy grins, shaking his head fondly. “I’m on your side, Murph.” 

Somehow Murphy feels like there is more being said in those words than about the argument, and shifts uncomfortably under Bellamy’s scrutinizing glare. He suddenly realizes how close they are, and how everything around him smells like Bellamy, firewood, and smoke. His head spins from the intimacy and his heart aches terribly. 

“Whatever,” he scoffs and hurries to get out of the bed. He nearly knocks the basin containing the bloody water in the process. 

He feels Bellamy’s eyes follow him as he shuffles around the room, finally having a look around. There is another bed directly across from his, a sword leaning against the wall. The small table in the middle is littered with Monty’s little knick-knacks, some rations, and Harper’s sewing. 

Murphy has never had a home, not really. The small, claustrophobic space he shared with his mother, the ghost of his father and bottles of liquor certainly wasn’t home for him, neither his cell in the Skybox. They threw him out of the Dropship before he could even get used to being there, and his cold, pathetic old room wasn’t much better. This place feels warm and lived-in, and laughter and whispered stories are etched between the walls. 

Murphy leans against the table, cocking his hip. Bellamy is propped op on his elbows, and fuck him if seeing Bellamy in his bed, under his covers, isn’t doing all sorts of things to him. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep focused. 

“Kane?” he asks, voice airy. He is proud to say he kept it from wavering. 

He just has to know what happened. He isn’t ready for that conversation, but he has to know what he did. 

It’s probably Murphy’s paranoia, but he feels like the lights in the room have dimmed a little, the shadows lengthening. Bellamy’s soft expression hardens. 

“You beat him up good.” Bellamy says it like it’s a praise and Murphy wants to hide from everything. He did nothing good, he is broken and uncontrollable. His brain is working against him. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to you quick enough. Abby sent him to lock-up, but he had a deal with the guards. Not everyone here is happy about Abby being the Chancellor,” he adds grimly. “But we got it under control. Kane and his guards are locked up and there will be a trial.”

Murphy gnaws on his lip. “And what about me?”

“What about you?”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Will there be a trial for me too?”

“No?” Bellamy’s voice rises at the end, almost making it a question. “Why should there be one?”

“I attacked him,” Murphy replies exasperatedly, flexing his hands. Bellamy should stop being considerate and just fucking tell him already, so he knows where he stands. “I beat the shit out of him.”

“He was going to shoot you, Murph. You did what you had to do.” Bellamy gets up from the bed, crossing the small space separating them with a few quick steps. He is close enough now he could kiss Murphy now if he wanted to. Though it also means Murphy has to crane his neck to see his face, which he is not a fan of. 

“Yeah, but last time you beat the fuck outta me, they threw your ass in the cell right next to mine,” Murphy murmurs under his breath, he cannot help himself. He is a masochist when it comes to Bellamy, and he was getting too close for Murphy’s head to function clearly. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, nodding woodenly, voice strained. It’s of no use for either of them to pretend that despite what they have right now, they were at each other’s throats not that long ago. “They did. But this is different. He came into that room to kill you. It was self-defense.”

“But it was-” Murphy’s breath hitches. He can’t talk about it, can’t very well explain it to anyone. He just _can’t._ How can he tell Bellamy he has something inside of him that can snap any minute? The banishment would be even quicker than the last one. Murphy takes deep breaths to ground himself, biting the inside of his cheek enough to draw blood. 

“It was necessary.” Bellamy grits his teeth. “Besides, you only had to do it because I was such an idiot and left you there alone.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Murphy replies automatically, wanting to make Bellamy feel better, despite a part of him knowing that if Bellamy stayed, things would have played out much differently. 

“Right,” Bellamy barks a laugh, resentment clear in his voice, nostrils flaring. “You don’t have to pretend for my sake.” 

“I’m not, though.” Murphy is unsure what to do for a moment, still awkward with showing physical affection, then settles on then laying a comforting hand on his arm. “If Kane went crazy, that is hardly your doing. And you also can’t read people’s minds.” When Bellamy still looks like a kicked puppy, Murphy shoves at him. “Stop it with that hero complex of yours already. You can’t be everywhere and save everyone, Blake.”

Bellamy smiles tiredly down at him. “You sound so wise, Murph. Like a wise old man.” 

“You’re calling _me_ old? What does that make you, ancient?” 

“You must be feeling better. You’re getting sassy.” 

“And you’re getting rude, sir!” Murphy fakes pouting, poking Bellamy in his (well-defined) chest. “You know, you remind me a lot of someone I know…” he trails off, thinking of Echo. He is not sure how to bring up that a Grounder helped him, since they’re enemies again. 

Bellamy’s eyes darken by just a fraction. “Who?” he urges. 

Murphy has to hide a shit-eating grin. “Not telling.” He tries to slip away, but Bellamy pulls him back easily, trapping him between his body and the table. Murphy’s throat is dry. The table is digging into his lower back painfully, but he pays it no mind. 

“Who is it?” His voice is low, demanding, and it starts a fire in Murphy’s belly. His senses are flooded by _Bellamy_ , his scent, his eyes, how would his skin taste. That one curl above his left ear that juts out so adorably. 

“Nobody,” Murphy breathes out, lost to the world. For once, he wants to throw all of his precautions, all of his worries and resolutions, away and make a mistake. He _wants_ to believe Bellamy will not turn on him again, that he won’t be left broken-hearted again. 

He wants to, but he can’t. 

He is so exhausted from the constant push and pull of his and Bellamy’s relationship. One day Bellamy kisses him in his tent, the next he banishes him from camp. One day he hates Murphy’s guts, can’t even look at him without scowling or hurting him; the next he is soft and completely different and sleeps next to him without attempting to smother him with a pillow. 

It’s all so terribly confusing. On Bellamy’s part, specifically. It’s not like Murphy wasn’t being clear - no, he has always been very obvious on his part. In the beginning, he was so obvious everybody made fun of his huge crush on Bellamy Blake. Then Bellamy trampled all over his fragile little heart and consequently caused him the greatest pain of Murphy’s life. So what, Bellamy hated him suddenly, Murphy hated Bellamy back, whatever. He got over it. What he doesn’t understand is why Bellamy is reverting back, why is he trying so hard. What exactly is he trying to accomplish? Has he finally seen how broken Murphy is and thinks it’s his fault, that he has to make up for it somehow?

That fucking stupid hero complex of this guy, really. 

“Good,” Bellamy finally replies, leaning away. Clearing his throat. “Um, that’s good.”

“Good,” Murphy echoes and wills his frantic heart to calm down. It’s nothing. Bellamy means nothing by this. He is just being nice because he is feeling guilty. He has to believe that in order to keep a sane mind.

“You hungry?” Bellamy’s question brings him back to reality.

“Starving,” he replies eagerly but then slumps down. “But I don’t… I mean, I don’t think I can go to the mess hall right now.” So many people, so many stares, so many whispers behind his back. He is too overwhelmed to even try. 

“Then stay put. I’ll be right back.” Bellamy is out the door before he can protest and then comes back after 15 minutes, carrying two steaming bowls of stew. 

They eat on the floor, tossing pieces of cooked vegetables at each other. 

It’s good to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, what do you think? Please let me know! This chapter we saw some angst, but also Murphamy bonding, which I'm so here for <3


	5. maybe my heart needs to break to be sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm so excited to be back to this fic! I've been sick for over two weeks and unable to write, which has been so hard when so many ideas were swimming around in my head haha! Now I'm feeling better, so here is a fresh dose of Murphy and Bellamy being idiots, and also some angst. Enjoy :)

The tension in the room is palpable and suffocating. Murphy keeps his gaze firmly planted on the table to avoid seeing everyone staring at him, but he can still feel their eyes on him and hear the whispers and snickering just fine.

He hasn’t seen most of the hundred in a while, and the last they know of him is he almost hanged Bellamy and blew a hole in the Dropship wall. He understands why they don’t like him, but he doesn’t like them either and hasn’t been staring at them for the last fifteen minutes like a creep. Fucking manners, really. 

“Hey, Murphy,” someone calls from the next table over, “how is it like being the Grounders’ bitch?” Snickering and some laughter follows. Murphy feels sick to his stomach and sees red. He is _this_ close to jumping up and punching that son of a bitch in the face when Miller calls out,

“Hey Mark, how is it like living with the world's smallest micropenis?”

More people laugh this time and Murphy releases the deathly grip on his fork. “I take it Kane wasn’t exactly discreet?” he mumbles.

Monty shakes his head grimly. “He kept shouting you’re a "Grounder spy" the whole time they led him to his cell.” He does air quotations for the spy part and Murphy is glad he has at least some people on his side this time. That somebody believes him when he says he didn't do it. 

“Perfect,” Murphy sighs, “just what I need.”

“Hey, don’t mind them,” Harper smiles at him, reaching over to pat his hand from where she is sitting pressed up against Monroe. For the first time, Murphy notices how Monroe’s whole posture has changed since Harper came back; she looks so relaxed now, he can only imagine under how much pressure she was living before. “They always find something to poke at,” she continues. “If they don’t stop, I’ve picked up some gossip that can make them lose interest in you like that.” She snaps her fingers. 

Murphy nods gratefully. The truth is though, he is used to the hatred. That’s not the part that bothers him the most. He scans the room, and notices for the second time Clarke is missing. 

“Hey, where is the Princess anyway? I expected to be reprimanded for scaring you all a long time ago.” 

A strange silence befalls the group and weird expressions appear on all of his friends’ faces; Bellam’s full of resentment and poorly hidden fury. Murphy tries to guess what he said wrong, but he can’t understand what could be so offensive about that question. 

“Clarke left,” Bellamy grits through clenched teeth, and Murphy is left staring at him, dumbstruck. 

“What? Why? And you didn’t go after her? Isn’t she like your best friend or something?” Murphy demands, bewildered. Last he checked, half the people in this room would have gone to war for their Princess. 

“Things change, Murphy,” Bellamy snaps at him which has Murphy recoiling from him, putting on a pissed off facade even though he is kind of freaking out on the inside. If Bellamy can change his mind on liking Clarke, when the two of them were such close friends, often joined at the hip, how long until he changes his mind on Murphy?

“What are _you_ doing here?” 

Murphy looks up to see Raven’s disgusted sneer directed at him, her posture signaling she is ready for a fight - scratch that, _looking_ for a fight. He was wondering when she would show up to make his miserable day all that much more miserable. 

“Well spying for the Grounders, dear Raven, isn’t it obvious?” Murphy returns the sneer in full force. He can give her a fight if she wants one. She has his reasons to hate him and he has his as well. After the Dropship, Murphy doubts they could ever reconcile. 

“What are you thinking?” she turns to Bellamy instead next, as if Murphy is not sitting right there. “Why are you forgiving him?”

“For what?” Bellamy’s voice is quipped, and yep, he is still definitely angry from talking about Clarke. 

“It’s his fault Finn is dead.” 

There is so much venom in her voice, Murphy is actually taken aback by it. She can blame all sorts of things on him, he doesn’t care, but she can’t pin this one on him. She can’t be pissed at him for not sacrificing his life for her boyfriend. He _chose_ to surrender himself. Raven is seriously belittling his sacrifice by finding a scapegoat for it, someone to direct her heartbreak and grief on. 

He meets her gaze straight on, while a strange thought pops up in his head - has he ever seen her smile? Perhaps she is the same as Murphy - always angry, without an outlet, and never knowing _why_. 

“No, it’s not,” Bellamy growls. “It’s nobody’s fault. Finn surrendered himself. You need to get over it, Raven.”

“If Octavia got blown up in Tondc, I wouldn’t tell you to get over it.” Raven hits a nerve. Bellamy stands up so abruptly his chair nearly topples over, and he straightens up to his full length, towering over everyone. He can look hella intimidating if he wants to, and now he definitely wants to, as he peers down at Raven with his chin high up.

“Go to hell,” he growls and strides away, whispering bubbling up in his wake. From the rage, Murphy is sure Octavia’s near blow up and Bellamy’s sudden aversion to Clarke are definitely connected.

Murphy stands up as well, frowning at Raven. Their whole table does, and she takes an unconscious step back, being faced with too many opponents. For a fraction of a second, she looks small and scared and left all alone by everyone closest to her. Then she flips Murphy off and is back to being a pain in the ass. 

“Satisfied?” he hisses at her, before jogging to catch up to Bellamy.

Murphy finds him up on the roof he used to frequent.

Bellamy jolts when Murphy’s head pops up. “How did you find me?”

Murphy shrugs when he pulls the rest of his body up out of the hole. “This used to be my sulking place first.”

Bellamy scoffs. “I’m not sulking.”

Murphy has to smile. “Sure you’re not, big guy.” He shuffles over until he is sitting next to Bellamy, knees pulled up to his chest, watching the evening sky spill out in front of them, gold bleeding into violet into dark blue. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No, not really.” Bellamy sniffs. Murphy can see his eyes are red but doesn’t comment on it. He knows Bellamy needs to feel like he is the strong one. 

They spend minutes in silence, watching the colours slowly drain from the sky, leaving only darkness behind. People under them are shuffling about, small and insignificant like ants for now. The air is crisp and fresh, neither filtered through the Ark system for the millionth time or heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and pain. It tastes simply amazing and Murphy takes in deep breaths because he _can_. 

“Someone helped me escape,” Murphy hears himself saying. “And now they’re probably dead.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Murphy is afraid to tell them about Echo. Half the people already think him a Grounder spy. How would they react if he said she helped him, that she is his friend?

“Okay,” Bellamy laughs. He slowly brings an arm around Murphy’s shoulders. Murphy tenses, but then decides to say fuck it and enjoy what he can before Bellamy changes his opinion on him again as he did on Clarke. 

They sit there long after all the people under them disappear, and there are only the stars above and the two of them left. Murphy finds it harder and harder to lean away until he can’t do it. 

“I was afraid I wouldn’t hear your bitching again,” Murphy whispers, reminiscing their conversation from yesterday. Bellamy squeezes his shoulder. 

“You’re gonna get more than enough of that, don’t worry.”

Murphy scoffs. “What now?” he turns his face up to look at Bellamy, his freckles highlighted by the moonlight. “Mt. Weather is gone. Do you have a plan?”

“Why me?” Bellamy murmurs, looking down at him. “I’m not in charge anymore. Abby calls the shots.” _Now that Clarke is gone_ is left unsaid. 

“You know those kids would only listen to you.” Bellamy doesn’t argue, because he knows it’s true. He is their Rebel King after all. 

“What are you thinking?” Bellamy’s fingers are slowly drawing shapes on Murphy’s arm. Goosebumps appear on his flesh and his cheeks heat up, but luckily it’s dark enough for Bellamy to not notice any of it. 

“We could leave.” It flies out of Murphy’s mouth, but he knows he means it the moment he says it. This gray, sad camp can’t be all Earth has to offer for them. There even aren’t any trees left, dammit. It’s muddy and cold and miserable. There are rules and punishments, sneers following him around wherever he goes. There is a fence and only certain people are allowed to venture beyond it. It’s starting to feel more and more like the Ark.

And Earth was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be a fresh start for all of them. They should’ve been free, and happy. Now they’re neither. 

“Where would we go though?” 

Somewhere where it isn’t swarming with Grounders, Murphy thinks. Somewhere where he doesn’t have to see the parents of the kids he killed every day. Somewhere where the ground isn’t soaked with blood, the woods don’t howl with the screams of the ones they lost, where nobody knows of their crimes. Somewhere where they could all start fresh, away from pain, from the memories, nightmares, the shallow graves-

“Somewhere safe.” 

There is so much longing in those three words. Isn’t that what all of them want after all? To not have to sleep with one eye open in case someone attacks? To not have to look over your shoulder all the time, afraid something in the dark might jump you? 

He waits for Bellamy to tell him that there is no such place. That he should lose those childish, unreal expectations of his. The fate is to be forever on the run, never settle down, never find peace. That Earth is harsh and unforgiving and if Murphy will continue to be soft it will rip him apart. 

Instead, Bellamy stays quiet for a long time. 

“There is a place…” he drawls, voice uncertain, but Murphy can see his eyes shining with newfound light. “A place where Lincoln wanted to take Octavia to. By the sea. Where it’s safe, and they accept everyone.”

Murphy doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to believe they could go there, and live by the sea. The _sea_. That is something on Earth he has yet to see. He remembers the old pictures he saw, of endless blue depths stretching on and on, with white caps of the waves lapping at the shore, glistening in the sunlight. Murphy can’t imagine anything freer than the ocean. 

“Do you think-” Murphy cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s too dangerous, too complicated, too stupid. He is too stupid. “We’re probably crazy, right?”

“Of course we’re crazy,” Bellamy hums and reaches out a hand to lift Murphy’s chin. His fingers are ice cold as they meet Murphy’s skin and that’s definitely why he shivers. “But we’re also going.”

_What?_

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Why not? It was your idea.” Bellamy shrugs, his face carefree like they’re just discussing what to have for breakfast. Like this is _real_. 

“I know,” Murphy grits out exasperatedly, “I’m allowed to have stupid ideas. You’re the one who is supposed to say no, explain why they’re stupid and then we fight about it.”

“But I don’t wanna fight you on this. I think you’re right. This place is hardly sustainable for a long term base. And even if we could take Mt. Weather, I’m telling you no one would want to stay there.” By the way he says it, Murphy realizes he still doesn’t know how they won over the Mountain Men, and he knows he is not going to like it.

“What did you do to win, Bell?” he asks, voice small, dreading the answer. 

Bellamy stares at his feet. “Too much to ever sleep soundly again.”

* * *

The week leading up to Kane’s trial has been rough, to say the least. 

Everyone knows what he did. He didn’t expect it to be kept a secret for much longer than a few days, but the gossip spreads like wildfire through the camp. It’s like has a target painted on his back, all heads turning when he walks by. Hushed voices, hands covering the speaking mouths like he can’t hear them that way. 

_That is the one. The one who almost murdered Chancellor Kane. Apparently, the attack was so vicious the blood is still being scrubbed away from the floors._

_But did you know he is spying for the Grounders? They say he exchanged his services with them to escape the mountain. Kane found out and look where that got him._

_My kid says he is a crazy-ass motherfucker. Killed a bunch of them kids and almost hanged another._

The whispers and stares follow him everywhere he goes. Not only the delinquents but also the Arkers show him nothing but scornful disdain. 

Murphy has never been particularly well-liked, but this is new even to him. People bump into him when he walks, way more harshly than they need to. Sometimes that ends in him plummeting to the ground, with a splash into the mud outside or with a grunt of pain when he hits the metal floors inside. Meals in the mess hall have become a thing he fears as well, assholes who walk behind him and dump their food on his head, leaving him flustered under the sticky stew sliding down his face, behind his clothes. Chairs are dragged out from under him just as he is about to sit. People spit at him when he passes them. 

He is not welcome at this camp and it shows. 

His friends keep him going though. 

  
  


Turns out, Murphy really didn’t have to worry about his nightmares waking the others up. 

They all have them. 

Murphy’s are presumably the worst. He is the only one who wakes up screaming his throat raw, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t suffer as much as he does in their dreams. 

Harper cries in her and sobs like her heart is being wrenched out of her chest. Monty trashes around so violently he had to move from the top to the bottom bunk bed, as he kept falling off of it. Monroe takes her nightmares silently, her body going rigid, almost ready to snap in half. 

They all have scars, and they all carry baggage. Sometimes they stay up all night afraid of what comes when they close their eyes, sitting in a circle on the ground sharing berries and stories of their crimes on the Ark. Sometimes Murphy falls asleep half sprawled on Monty on the floor and wakes up with a blanket that smells like Bellamy thrown over them. 

Despite the rest of the camp hating his guts and the general fact that their lives suck, this is the first time in Murphy’s life that he is content. 

The idea of leaving this place gets buried way back in his head, his mind full of life at the moment to daydream about what could be. It comes back sometimes though, in quiet moments with nothing to distract him. In those moments, it’s peaceful in his mind and he dreams of the sea, of waves lapping at the shore, of sand between his toes. He dreams of a vast green forest and soft grass, of vibrant flower fields in bloom and exotic fruits he doesn’t know the names of swaying on branches. He dreams of colour and freedom when all he has is gray, and prison walls.

* * *

“Well, this fucking sucks.” Murphy lets out a frustrated sigh and drops the sewing he is holding, pressing his hands against his tired eyes. “I can’t even see anymore, and my fingers are a bloody mess.”

Kane’s trial is tomorrow and he is on edge, full of restless energy and dread, ready to snap at anyone if they as much as  _ breathe  _ wrong. Yesterday, he dreamed of Kane chasing him down the Ark halls, always right behind him no matter which turn Murphy took. Darkness and a river of blood pouring down the corridors, his legs making a disgusting sploshing sound as he trudged through it. Kane’s face changed to a Grounder one the moment he looked over his shoulder, the black of his warpaint swallowing up his eyes.

Harper, who is sitting across from him, scoffs as she works seemingly effortlessly at her own piece, hands moving in rapid motions, sewing the needle in and out, in and out. The hut they’re in is dark, only a few torches giving them enough light to see what they’re doing. Murphy has been reassigned from building shelters to mending clothes for “him to have time to heal” Abby claimed, but he is sure it’s just to get him out of sight and out of everybody’s hair. He has been healed for quite a few days and still is stuck sewing things even though he doesn’t know how to sew. 

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Harper’s lips twitch. 

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Keeping up with your level of cheer is impossible.” 

“I keep up just fine.” 

“Congratulations.” 

Harper shakes her head fondly. “You’re seriously lucky Bellamy is apparently into the mean and angry ones.” 

Murphy jerks, digging the needle into his thumbpad once again with the sudden motion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he manages to say. 

Now it’s Harper’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh c’mon, don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb,” Murphy reflexively defends himself. “He’s just not into me.”

“Yeah, sure. And Monroe’s not into me,” she snickers. 

“I’m serious, Harper.” He turns his gaze away, to the burnt place on the table between them. It’s sort of shaped like a fat duck. “He’s just feeling guilty, so he hangs around me all the time. Give him time to adjust to me being alive and boom, I guarantee you he will be back to treating me like dirt in no time.” 

Murphy can see Harper’s hands stop their movements and lay the sewing down on the table. “Do you actually believe that?” she demands, disbelief in her voice. 

Murphy just nods, the tips of his ears turning red. They have been teasing him about Bellamy ever since he got back, and he just wants it to stop. It’s adding salt to the wound and Bellamy is rubbing it in by constantly fretting over him. That guy is _everywhere_. He trips because an asshole nudged him way too harshly in the hallway? Bellamy is there to pick him up. He is carrying a package of rations? Bellamy is there to take it and deliver it for him. It's infuriating. Doesn't he have a job? Is there nothing left to guard? _Perhaps go guard the psychopath who tried to shoot me_ , Murphy thinks bitterly. 

“Oh my god, you really _are_ fucking dumb.”

“Excuse me?” Murphy sputters, raising his head to stare Harper down, and finds her fiercely returning the gaze. 

“You heard me.” She frowns. “I’ve never met anyone as thick-headed as the two of you, really.”

“Okay, I take back the thing about you being cheery,” Murphy mumbles, sucking on his thumb that keeps bleeding from the needle pricks. “You’re fucking rude.”

She stands up abruptly, leaving her work half done on the table, muttering to herself as she quickly makes her way to the exit, muttering to herself something Murphy can’t quite make out. But it sure isn’t flattering. Did he piss her off that much? If she is gonna take offense at a little bit of banter with a swear word thrown in there, there will be a problem because Murphy isn't wired to be polite. Being insulted a few times a day is basically a part of the deal of being his friend.

“Where are you going?” he calls after her, bewildered. 

“To find out if Bellamy is as idiotic as you.”

* * *

Being jumped has become something of a regular occurrence in Murphy’s life nowadays. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get his heart beating erratically and breath shortening in a heartbeat, dreading what mockery or hurt is about to be thrown his way. This time, he is walking back from the showers, hair still dripping wet and shivering in his worn, holy clothes. It’s past midnight; he is smarter than trying to shower with the others. He doesn’t even want to imagine the harassment. And he certainly doesn’t want to show the people who have nothing for him but contempt his scarred body. 

“Let go, asshole,” Murphy growls automatically when long arms envelop him from behind, positively locking him in place. Breath ghosts over his neck and he cringes, goosebumps appearing on his bare arms. Bile is threatening to rise in his throat.

“I said let go!” He wrestles himself free enough to turn around. 

Instead of a punch, a heavy liquor odor hits his face. 

Murphy blinks up at Bellamy’s face, bewildered. It’s obvious the other has been drinking, his eyes glazed over and drooping, face set in a ridiculously cute determination. 

“Really funny, Bell,” Murphy scoffs and pushes on the arms still holding him. “Way to give a guy a heart attack. I thought you liked having me alive.” 

Bellamy doesn’t answer nor does he let go, so they stand there in the middle of the hallway in an awkward sort-of-hug. “Did you find Monty’s secret stash?” Murphy demands, narrowing his eyes. Bellamy must be drunker than he initially thought. 

He yelps when Bellamy sways dangerously, nearly sending them sprawling on the ground. He barely manages to bear his footing and now he is supporting Bellamy’s limp form, his legs uncooperative, making grabby hands at Murphy. 

“You’re stupid,” Bellamy slurs finally, making him falter in his attempts to make him stand up on his own. The words sting only a little. “Harper said.” He hiccups. 

The moon shines down on them. Water from his hair falls on Bellamy’s skin, the drops glistening like stolen jewels. Murphy doesn’t dare move, cursing both himself and Harper in his mind. So she really talked to Bellamy about him. And he.... got shitfaced? He isn’t sure what to make of that. Is he drinking away anger? Disgust? Both? Is he here to beat those dumb thoughts out of him?

 _You’re stupid._ You’re stupid to assume I like you. You’re stupid to think I’ve forgiven you. 

The silence is stretching on and on. Murphy isn’t sure how to respond, because what do you say to someone who just admitted they know about your crush on them? Apologize? He doesn’t have to think for long though because Bellamy suddenly lurches forward, letting go of his waist in favour of cupping his face in his hands. His palms are rough with callouses which catch on Murphy’s skin, making him shiver.

He is too shocked to say anything. The familiarity of this position seeps in and his knees weaken, reminiscing of how many times they’ve been like this, Bellamy caressing his cheek in his tent where nobody could see. He has to fight tears because this is just so fucking unfair to Murphy. Bellamy gets to get wasted, do stuff like this, and not remember shit the next day and _Murphy_ is the one who has to live with the knowledge of what he’s missing, of what he only has when Bellamy is shitfaced-drunk burning bright and painful in his heart. 

He tries to shake out of it, grabs Bellamy’s hands on his cheeks ready to lower them down, get away to have some space, any space, now he doesn’t have any, they’re practically sharing the same breath-

But there is a question in Bellamy’s eyes and he is frowning, concentration clear on his face, like the question is the most important thing in his life like it’s a destiny he has to fulfill. His eyes roam Murphy’s face for an answer which Murphy isn’t sure he has. It captivates him enough to forget about his plan though and he stares into those deep brown depths, also looking for something, too terrified to admit for what. 

“The sea,” Bellamy whispers, voice raspy and the smell of alcohol hits Murphy the second time, still as strong. “I promised I would show you the sea.” 

He nods. It is tearing him apart from the inside, but he nods. For this one moment, under the moonlight, he can pretend that he can have what he wants. That he and Bellamy can leave this place for the sea, together, hand in hand. “You did,” he whispers. “It’s alright.” You don’t have to follow through, he wants to add. He pats Bellamy on the cheek condescendingly, pulling away. 

Bellamy kisses him. 

He has chapped lips and smells like he drank an entire liquor store, but that doesn’t matter, nothing matters now as Murphy frantically responds, sliding their lips together. He presses close to him, throwing his arms around his neck, and tears roll down his cheeks. Bellamy worries his lower lip between his teeth hard enough to draw blood, and that’s what wakes Murphy up.

He is shoving him away in an instant. “You’re drunk!” he yells, not caring if somebody hears. The night is silent though, it’s only him and Bellamy and his bleeding heart making a mess in his chest. Every part of his being screams at him to just forget everything, to go back to kissing Bellamy because it’s the happiest he has felt in forever, even though it lasted only a few moments. He wants to. God, he wants to. 

Bellamy’s features are dim in the darkness once he is not pressed up against him. He looks almost confused, head tilted to the side, puppy dog eyes back in full force. The moonlight hits him just right then and on his neck, peeking out from under his collar Murphy can see a hickey. It’s like a punch to the gut. Reality comes crashing down on him, cold air hitting his heated skin, the water dripping down from his hair chilling on his shoulders to his very bones. Bellamy is wasted. Who knows _who_ he got wasted with, and what he did with them before he caught Murphy. 

Murphy clenches his fists, his newly grown nails digging into the flesh of his palms. His cheeks heat up. He won’t be anybody’s bitch, a cheap fuck on the side. Never. 

“But the sea?” Bellamy babbles, tongue heavy in his mouth like if he gets him sentimental enough, Murphy will yield. He extends his arms towards him. Murphy wants to cut them off. 

“I’m not your whore!” Murphy’s voice catches on a sob. “You can’t just- You can't keep doing this to me, you asshole!” He yearns to punch Bellamy, kick him, scratch his skin, anything to make him feel a little of what he is doing to him, burrowing a dagger in his heart. 

Instead, he turns around and runs away. Every step feels like he is stepping on a shard of his own broken heart which calls him to go back. He doesn’t. And Bellamy doesn’t follow.

He bursts into their room, blind behind his tears. Shutting the heavy metal door feels like cutting off the connection between him and Bellamy. (Bellamy, who is currently probably lying somewhere, trying to sleep off the booze, or maybe trying to find a different lay when Murphy didn’t work out. In the morning, he will throw up, curse himself while his headache pounds away and be blissfully unaware of what he caused tonight.)

Murphy rubs his tears away and finds Monty and Miller curled up on Monty’s bed, in a position way too intimate to be anything other than what it looks like. They jump apart the moment he steps in, but he has already seen more than enough. 

Monty is blushing so furiously it’s kind of hilarious if Murphy could laugh right now. 

“Try to be quiet with it, I’m gonna go to sleep,” he rasps, dragging his cold body towards his bed. The furs feel warm and comforting until he recalls Bellamy laying here with him, and they stop feeling that way. 

Some rustling. “Hey, Murphy, um. You okay?” sounds Miller’s voice, uncertain but determined. 

“Peachy,” he murmurs into his pillow. 

“Seriously. Some asshole do somethin’ to you again?” 

“No, everything is fine. I’m just tired.”

Monty butts in. “You gotta tell us if someone was bothering you-”

“I feel great, Monty!” Murphy snaps, not ready to deal with it. He just wants to curl up with his humiliation and hurt and nurture his fractured heart. In silence. He stares at the wall. “Now go back to snogging your boyfriend and leave me alone.”

He drags the furs over his head and they leave him alone.

* * *

Murphy wakes up to something cold digging into his forehead. 

Groggily blinking his eyes open, he freezes. This is why he hates going to sleep, goddammit. 

It’s a gun. 

A vaguely familiar face is staring down at him, an ugly smirk cutting sharply across the boy’s features. He keeps the barrel pressed against Murphy’s skin, almost casually, almost carelessly. Almost. 

“Get up,” he orders, digging it in a little bit harder for a second, leaving a red circle in his skin behind, as he adds, “Spy.”

Murphy complies because it’s the only sensible thing to do in a situation like this. The numbness is still deep in his bones, chest aching. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since he fell asleep, but the room doesn’t have any windows, he can’t tell. 

In the near darkness, he sees Monroe, Monty and Harper don’t have it much better than him. Two other guys he thinks he recognizes are keeping them at gunpoint. Miller is nowhere to be seen. Monty is standing with his head high and wide eyes. Harper is tucked almost completely behind Monroe, the other girl’s posture protective and emitting a strange calm - akin to a calm before a storm. 

Murphy’s heart is in his throat. He catches Monroe’s eye. She subtly jerks her head to the right, barely even moving it. Murphy’s eyes fall on their training swords lying on the floor, forgotten in the chaos. 

His captor (Luke? is it Luke? he thinks it’s Luke, his tent was across from his) pushes him forward, making him stumble and hit their table in the middle of the room with his hip, leaving a throbbing bruise behind. As he gets closer, he can see one of the guys is Mark, the asshole who called him out in the mess hall before. “The rest of you can join us,” he offers his friends, a sly smirk creeping up his face as he deliberately slowly looks Harper up and down. “We just want the spy.”

Murphy’s blood runs cold when it dawns on him that the only reason his friends are in danger is him. Again, he ruined everything solely by existing. His throat feels tight. Luke is digging his fingers into his arm, almost drawing blood. The gun is now pressed up against his side. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself by the mental image of banging all of their heads on the table. He imagines the wood painted red. 

“As if we would join traitors,” Monroe sneers, spitting at Mark’s feet. His face hardens and Harper tugs on her arm urgently, shaking her head mutely, pleading.

“Traitors?” Mark barks. “The only traitor in this room is the fucking Grounder spy.”

“I’m not a spy.” Murphy finally finds his voice. It’s probably pointless to try to reason with them, but he tries it anyway. “Don’t you think if I was one, wouldn’t I have let them in already or something? Or that Chancellor Griffin would let me walk free-”

Mark strides over to him in two long steps, gripping his chin between his fingers. He forces Murphy to look at him as he says,

“Chancellor _Griffin_ was clearly not capable of making the right decisions,” Mark spits out. “Chancellor _Kane_ on the other hand had given an order to capture the traitor, which I’m more than happy to follow.” 

Oh no, no. The trial was supposed to be tomorrow. They let him go? How could they let him go? It’s like in his dreams, but now it’s real and Kane won’t hesitate this time whether to blow his brains out or not. 

What did they do to Abby? The woman who checked on him while he healed, brought him food and water, kept him alive long enough for him to find a will to live again. A fury bubbles up deep inside him, thrumming through his veins. His entire being throbs with anger. 

Murphy is in deep, deep trouble. Mark and his friends keep smirking, their faces like masks that hide something much uglier on the inside. The gun nudging his ribs is cold, and just like that, he realizes he will never get to see the ocean. He is too tainted, doesn’t deserve colour, but his friends do. They all have reasons to live, _people_ to live for, and be by their side. His reason just stepped all over his heart, crushing it under his boot.

He has to do everything he can to help his friends, to stall so they can escape. He will help them before he is executed. 

“Okay, then take me, and let them go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? Any feedback is hugely appreciated! Also, it would be great to hear your guys' assumptions about how this story is gonna go, it's really helpful when figuring out what will work and what won't. See you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> So, how did you like it? Feedback is always appreciated! I'm aiming for Murphy befriending one of the delinquents each chapter, so now we're starting off with Monroe! (Monroe is an underdeveloped character anyway, so I'm here to change that :))


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